“Why, then—” he hesitated. Why should he think of this just now? He did not want her grown up into a charming mademoiselle, even if she resembled her mother still more strongly.
“Yes; what then? Isn’t it just the same afterward, or do people come to a time when they stop eating?” and a gleam of mischief crossed her face.
“That is at the end of life, child—sixty or eighty years.”
“No, I don’t mean that time,” with a shrug and a little curl of the lip. “Maybe—after a few years——”
“Well?” in amused inquiry.
“You might go to New Orleans and take me. Ma’m’selle Barbe has been, and she says it is so beautiful and gay.”
“And you have been half over the world. Ma’m’selle has not been to Quebec nor Detroit.”
“Oh, that is true enough,” laughingly. “Nor to France.”
Two customers paused at the door, and he said, “Run away, dear.” So she went obediently, watched Mère Lunde at her work awhile, then strolled out to the garden spot, where two hired slaves were working. What should make them so different from white people? Where was Africa and the Guinea Coast that she heard spoken of at the Renauds’? Their lips were so thick and red and their hair so woolly. But they seemed very merry, though she could not understand a word they said; it was a queer patois.
Uncle Gaspard came out presently. “Wouldn’t you like to have a flower garden?” he asked.