As soon as it was dark, Annette took from its hiding-place the necklace, and as the cool, milky globes slipped through her fingers, she kissed them, saying,—
“Dear father, to think that these may save thy life. I remember my mother said that they were never to be parted with save ‘for life or honour.’ Perhaps this time it may be both, but I cannot tell.”
For a moment she was at a loss how to carry them, and then putting them about her neck she snapped the clasp securely and drew over them the waist of her gown, which was fashioned to come high in the neck.
“’Tis the easiest and the simplest way, and certainly none would think that such a thing lay beneath my calico frock.”
She kissed the little brothers and sister, and bade Pierre take good care of them till she should return, whispering in his ear,—
“I go for father, but tell of this to no one till I return.”
And Pierre, with his wide-staring eyes fixed on her face, could only say,—
“I will promise.”
At the landing Annette chose the smallest and lightest pirogue, and, with the caution one would have expected from an older and wiser head, put in the bottom an extra paddle and a small basket of food. She pushed off the little dug-out, and turning its head down stream looked back with confidence, saying in her brave young heart,—
“Shortly I shall return, and with my father.”