"Why, I know it is true," she replied, ceasing her fanning to stare at me with calm, wide eyes. "Do you doubt it?"
"How can I?" said I, laughing. "Who is this busy hag, Catrine Montour?"
"They say," said Dorothy, waving her fan thoughtfully, "that her father was that Count Frontenac who long ago governed the Canadas, and that her mother was a Huron woman. Many believe her to be a witch. I don't know. Milk curdles in the pans when she is running through the forest ... they say. Once it rained blood on our front porch."
"Those red drops fall from flocks of butterflies," I said, laughing. "I have seen red showers in Florida."
"I should like to be sure of that," said Dorothy, musing. Then, raising her starry eyes, she caught me laughing.
"Tease me," she smiled. "I don't care. You may even make love to me if you choose."
"Make love to you!" I repeated, reddening.
"Why not? It amuses--and you're only a cousin."
Astonishment was followed by annoyance as she coolly disqualified me with a careless wave of her fan, wafting the word "cousin" into my very teeth.
"Suppose I paid court to you and gained your affections?" I said.