The mischievous young Stephens had grown more serious than Annette had ever seen him before.
"But, my little girl, what is to become of you during this period of tumult. It may continue long, and it is hard to say what the chances of war may have in store for your father."
"I know not; though my heart is with the cause of my father and of his people, yet, I do not desire to see them triumph over your people. A government under the hateful chief would be intolerable; and whenever I can warn the white soldiers of danger, I shall do it."
"What a hero you are Annette! How different from what I supposed on that day when I saw you sitting in your canoe in the midst of the racing flood."
She was glad that Monsieur held what she had done in such high regard.
"Why dear girl, the story of your bravery will be told by the writers of books throughout all Christendom. Ah, Annette, I shall be so lonely when you go from me!"
Stephens was all the while growing more serious, and even becoming pathetic, which is a sign of something very delicious, and not uncommon, when you are travelling under a bewitching moon in company with a more bewitching maiden.
But there was so much mischief in his nature that he would rebound at any moment from a mood of pathos or seriousness to one of levity. "Well, Annette," and he leaned yearningly towards her, "when you leave me to take the chances of this tumultuous time, the greatest light that I have known will have gone out of my life."
"When I am absent from Monsieur, perhaps he never thinks of me."
"What a little ingrate it is! Yesterday morning, while you were getting breakfast, I was upon the prairie, doing—what think you?"