“I shall not blame you,” Gaspard answered gravely. “And if you want a staunch friend, here he is,” springing up and holding out his hand.
“A thousand thanks, Gaspard Denys. I wanted to tell you my story. It is not for every one, only the fact that I have loved and married her. And now it grows late. Good-night.”
They clasped hands again cordially. Denys shut his shop door and went through to the other room. Mère Lunde was telling over some beads. Renée sat in the chimney corner, but the fire was out long ago.
“Why did you let that man talk so long to you?” with pretty imperiousness. “And I grew very sleepy. But I wanted to say good-night.”
“He had much to relate, a story you will like to hear sometime. And he is coming to-morrow to bring a pretty Indian wife that he found up by the Strait of Michilimackinac. That is a long name, is it not?”
“And is the strait long—as long as to the end of the millpond?”
“It is of more account. It connects the big Lake Michigan with Lake Huron.”
Geography had not come to be one of the studies, and the only maps were the traders’ rough outlines of journeys.
She was not considering the lakes. Her thoughts were as rapid as a bird’s flight.
“Is she like Mattawissa?”