Jen faced him. "What do you go there for, Pretty Pierre?"
"It is my whim. Besides, there is Val. He might want a horse some dark night."
"Pierre, do you mean that?"
"As much as Sergeant Tom means what he says. Every man has his friends. Pretty Pierre has a fancy for Val Galbraith—a little. It suits him to go to Fort Desire. Jen Galbraith, you make a grand ride last night. You do a bold thing—all for a man. We shall see what he will do for you. And if he does nothing—ah! you can trust the tongue of Pretty Pierre. He will wish he could die, instead of—Eh, bien, good-night!" He moved away. Jen followed him. She held out her hand. It was the first time she had ever done so to this man.
"I believe you," she said. "I believe that you mean well to our Val. I am sorry that I called you a devil." He smiled. "Ma'm'selle, that is nothing. You spoke true. But devils have their friends—and their whims. So you see, good-night."
"Mebbe it will come out all right, Jen—mebbe!" said the old man.
But Jen did not reply. She was thinking hard, her eyes upon the Prairie
Star. Living life to the hilt greatly illumines the outlook of the mind.
She was beginning to understand that evil is not absolute, and that good
is often an occasion more than a condition.
There was a long silence again. At last the old man rose to go and reduce the volume of flame for the night; but Jen stopped him. "No, father, let it burn all it can to-night. It's comforting."
"Mebbe so—mebbe!" he said.
A faint refrain came to them from within the house: