“Oh no, her husband wouldn’t like that. You see, Manette is to be married. She told me to tell you all about it.”
He told her all that was to tell of Manette’s courtship, and added that the wedding would take place in the spring.
“Manette wanted it when the leaves first flourish and the birds come back,” he said, gayly; “and so she’s not going to live with me at the Seigneury, you see. No, there it is, as fine a house, good enough for a prince, and I shall be there alone, unless—”
His eyes met hers, and he caught the light that was in them before the eyelids drooped over them and she turned her head to the fire. “But the spring is two months off yet,” he added.
“The spring?” she asked, puzzled, yet half afraid to speak.
“Yes, I’m going into my new house when Manette goes into her new house—in the spring. And I won’t go alone if—”
He caught her eyes again, but she rose hurriedly and said: “You must sleep now. Good-night.” She held out her hand.
“Well, I’ll tell you the rest to-morrow—to-morrow night, when it’s quiet like this, and the stars shine,” he answered. “I’m going to have a home of my own like this—ah, bien sûr, Pauline.”
That night the old Indian mother prayed to the Sun. “O great Spirit,” she said, “I give thanks for the Medicine poured into my heart. Be good to my white child when she goes with her man to the white man’s home far away. O great Spirit, when I return to the lodges of my people, be kind to me, for I shall be lonely; I shall not have my child; I shall not hear my white man’s voice. Give me good Medicine, O Sun and great Father, till my dream tells me that my man comes from over the hills for me once more.”