“Oh, younger, much younger. Only a girl. Fifteen or sixteen perhaps. They will come to dinner to-morrow. Mère Lunde,” raising his voice a little, “we shall have guests to-morrow. Give us a good dinner.”
“Guests! How many?” in a cheerful tone.
“Oh, only two. A young trader and his wife, a pretty Indian girl. Unless, indeed, some one else drops in.”
This often happened in a town where there were no inns, and sometimes led to rather amusing episodes when a traveller mistook the wide-open doors and a bountiful table for a hostelry.
“Did you see her?” asked Renée, following out her own thoughts.
“No, but I have known him some time. He was a young lad here in the town, François Marchand.”
Mère Lunde shut down the cover of the box that held her beads, and picked up the end of her stout apron. It always seemed to assist her memory.
“Marchand. And a boy. Had he very blue eyes?”
“Yes, and he has them still,” laughed Denys.
“Then I know. He was a nice lad. It is a thousand pities he has married an Indian. Yes, you shall have a good dinner. Renée, it is time thou went to bed.”