Claire turned over in her mind that mute contempt which Mother Mary evidently felt for what she would call a girl’s fickleness. Her ungracious leave-taking of the upright and duty-loving abbess was a pain to her. As to the bishop, she could not regret that his first benediction had been final. Resentment still heated her against both those strict devotees. She was yet young enough to expect perfect happiness, for the children of man live much before they learn to absorb the few flawless joys which owe their perfection to briefness.
One such moment Claire had when her soldier leaned over her in silence.
“We are going farther from France. Are you homesick, dear?”
“No; I am simply in a rage at the bishop of New France and the abbess of the Ursulines.”
“There they go behind the rock of Quebec, entirely separated from us. Have you regrets that you bore such a wedding for my sake?”
“Sieur des Ormeaux, I have but a single fault to find with you.”
“What is that?” Dollard anxiously inquired.
“The edge of your hat is too narrow.”
“Why, it is the usual head-cover of a French officer of my rank; but I will throw it into the river.”
“O, monsieur! that would be worse than ever. If you despise me for seizing on you as I did——”