About the middle of August the Sieur de Champlain and Captain Francois de Pontgrave sailed from Tadoussac for France.  The Giffards, Destournier, and several others accompanied them to the port, and were then to survey some of the places that had advantages for planting colonies.  They did not return until in September.  The season was unusually fine and warm, and there had been an abundance of everything.  The colonists had been busy enough preparing for winter.  They had learned ways of drying fruit, of smoking meats and fish, of caring for their grains.  There had been no talk of Indian raids, indeed the villages about were friendly with the whites, and friendly with several of the outlying tribes.  Some had gone on raids farther south.

Madame Giffard would have found time hanging heavy on her hands but for the child.  She began to teach her to read and to play checkers.  Rose did not take kindly to embroidery, but some of the Indian work interested her.  With Pani and Wanamee’s assistance she made baskets and curious vase-like jars.  Pierre Gaudrion came up now and then, and miladi considered him quite a prodigy in several ways.

When they were dull and tired miladi gave Rose dancing lessons.  The child was really fascinated with the enjoyment.  Miladi would dress up in one of her pretty gowns to the child’s great delight, and they would invent wonderful figures.  Sometimes the two men would join them, and they would keep up the amusement till midnight.

Pani was growing rapidly and he was their most devoted knight.  And when the snows set in there were great snowballing games; sometimes between the Indians alone, at others, the whites would take a hand.

It was splendid entertainment for the children to slide about on the snowy crust, that glistened in the sunlight as if sprinkled with gems.  The Indian women often participated in this amusement.  And miladi looked as bewitching in her deerskin suit, with its fringes and bright adornments of feather borders, and her lovely furs, as in her Paris attire.  She often thought she would like to walk into some assembly and make a stir in her strange garments.

What is the Sieur doing?  Making new bargains, persuading colonists to join them, getting concessions to the profit of New France.  Alas!  Old France was a selfish sort of stepmother.  She wanted furs, she wanted colonies planted, she wanted explorations, and possessions taken in every direction, to thwart English and Dutch, who seemed somehow to be prospering, but the money supplies were pared to the narrowest edge.

The little girl would have been much interested in one step her dear Sieur was taking, though she did not hear of it until long afterward.  This was his betrothment and marriage to Marie Helene, the daughter of Nicolas Boulle, private secretary to the young King.  A child of twelve, and the soldier and explorer who was now forty or over, but held his years well and the hardships had written few lines on his kindly and handsome face.  That he was very much charmed with the child, who was really quite mature for her age, was true, though it is thought the friendship of her father and her dowry had some weight.  But she adored her heroic lover, although she was to be returned to the convent to finish her education.  Then the Sieur made his will and settled a part of the dowry on his bride, and the income of all his other property, his maps and books, “in case of his death in voyages on the sea and in the service of the King.”

If the autumn had been lovely and long beyond expectations, winter lingered as well.  And the travellers had a hard time on their return.  Lofty bergs floated down the Atlantic, and great floes closed in around the vessel, and the rigging was encased in glittering ice.  Sometimes their hearts failed them and the small boats were made ready, but whither would they steer?  Captain Pontgrave kept up his courage, and “when they brought their battered craft into the harbor of Tadoussac they fired a cannon shot in joyous salute,” says history.  Seventy-four days had their journey lasted.

The country was still white with snow, although it was May.  Already some trading vessels were bidding for furs, but the Montagnais had had a hard winter as well, and the Bay traders would have perished on the way.

Champlain pushed on to Quebec, though his heart was full of fears.

Rose was out on the gallery, that Pani was clearing from the frequent light falls of snow.  A canoe was being rowed by some Indians and in the stern sat the dearly-loved Commander.  “They have come! they have come!” shouted Rose, and she ran in to spread the joyful news.  Destournier and Giffard were at a critical point in a game of chess, but both sprang up.  The bell pealed out, there was a salute, and every one in the fort rushed out with exclamations of joy.  For the sake of the little girl he had left, the Sieur stooped and kissed Rose.

Du Parc was in the best of spirits, and had only a good account.  There had been no sickness, no Indian troubles, and provisions had lasted well.  All was joy and congratulations.  Even the Indian settlements near by built bonfires and beat their drums, dancing about with every indication of delighted welcome.

He had brought with him the young Indian Savignon, while Etienne Brule had wintered with the Ottawas, perfecting himself in their language.  He was a fine specimen of his race, as far as physique went, and his winter in civilization had given him quite a polish.

There was a great feast.  Miladi was in her glory ordering it, and Savignon paid her some compliments that quite savored of old times in her native land.  She was fond of admiration, and here there was but small allowance of it.

He was to restore the young brave to his tribe, and Destournier was to accompany him.  He saw that with trade open to rivals there must be some stations.  It was true no men could be spared to form a new colony, and the few he had induced to emigrate would do better service in the old settlement.  In Cartier’s time there had been the village of Hochelega.  It was a great stretch of open fertile land, abounding in wild fruits and grapes, so he pre-empted it in the name of the King, put up a stout cross, and built two or three log huts, and planted some grain seeds that might in turn scatter themselves around.  And so began Montreal.  The river was dotted with islands; the largest, on which the wild iris, the fleur-de-lis, grew abundantly, he named St. Helene, in remembrance of his little betrothed.

They pushed on beyond the rapids and here he met the Algonquins and restored their young brave to them, and was glad to find Etienne Brule in good health and spirits.  But Savignon bade him farewell ruefully, declaring life in Paris was much more agreeable, and spoiled one for the wilderness.

Various bands of Hurons and Algonquins came to meet the great white Sagamore, and he secured much trade for the coming season.  But the fur business was being greatly scattered, and Demont’s finances were at a rather low ebb, so there could not be the necessary branching out.

Destournier had some schemes as well.  He had come to the new world partly from curiosity and the desire to mend his fortunes.  He saw now some fine openings, if he could get a concession or grant of land.  His old family seat might be disposed of, he had not Laurent Giffard’s aim to make a fortune here and go back to France and spend it for show.

Madame Giffard was deeply disappointed at this prospect, and Rose was inconsolable.

“Who will read to us in the long evenings and the days when the driving snow makes it seem like night.  And oh, M’sieu, who will dance with me and tell me those delightful stories, and laugh at my sayings that come like birds’ flights across my mind and go their way?”

“You will have miladi.  And there are the Gaudrion children.  Pierre has a heart full of worship for you.  And books that the Governor brought.  The time will pass quickly.”

“To you.  There will be so many things.  But the long, long days.  And miladi says there are so many pretty girls in Paris, whose dancing and singing are marvellous, and who would laugh at a frock of deerskin.  Oh, you will forget me, and all the time I shall think of you.  You will not care.”

Her beautiful eyes were suffused with tears, the brilliance of her cheek faded, and her bosom heaved with emotion.  What a girl she would be a few years hence.  His dear Sieur had married a child ­was he really in love with her?  But his regard was fatherly, brotherly.

“See,” he began, “we will make a bargain.  When the first star comes out you will watch for it and say, ’M’sieu Ralph is looking at it and thinking of me.’  And I will say ­’the little Rose of Quebec is turning toward me,’ and we will meet in heart.  Will not this comfort thee?”

“Oh, I shall hug it to my heart.  The star! the star!  And when the sky is thick with clouds I shall remember you told me the stars were always there.  And I will shut my eyes and see you.  I see strange things at times.”

“So you must not be unhappy, for I shall return,” and he took her throbbing fingers in his.

She raised her lovely eyes.  What a charming coquette she would make, if she were not so innocent.  But the long fringe of lashes was beaded with tears.

It was odd, he thought, but with all the admiration of her husband miladi made as great a time as the child.  What should she do in this horrible lonely place, shut up in the fort all winter, with no company but an Indian woman and a child whose limited understanding took in only foolish pleasures.  What miladi needed was companionship.  Ah! if she could return to France.  If Laurent would only consent.  But now he thought only of fortune-making.

“And a return at the end.  He is not taking root here.  I am.  I like the boundless freedom of this new country,” said Destournier.

“You will marry.  There is some demoiselle at home on whom your heart is set.  And the old friendship will go for naught.  You have been ­yes, like a brother,” and she flushed.

“No, I am not likely to marry,” he returned gravely.

“But ­you will not return,” in a desperate kind of tone.  “You will be won by Paris.”

“I shall return.  All my interests are here.  And as I said ­I shall leave my heart in this new country.”

Then she smiled, a little secure in the thought that she had no rival.

So again the Sieur de Champlain set sail for France, and many a discourse he held with Ralph Destournier on the future of Quebec, that child of his dreams and his heart.  It would be fame enough, he thought, to be handed down to posterity as the founder of Quebec, the explorer of the great inland seas that joining arms must lead across the continent.

Miladi was very capricious, Rose found, although she did not know the meaning of the word.  What she wanted to-day she scouted to-morrow.  Rose’s reading was enough to set one wild.  Sure she was not French-born, or she would know by intuition.  Sometimes she would say pettishly, “Go away, child, you disturb me,” and then Rose would play hide-and-seek with Pani, or run down to the Gaudrions.  Marie was quite an expert in Indian embroidery, the children were gay and frolicsome, and there was a new baby.  Pierre was very fond of her; a studious fellow, with queer ideas that often worked themselves out in some useful fashion.  They read together, stumbling over words they could not understand.

“And I shall build a boat of my own and go out to those wonderful rapids.  At one moment it feels as if you would be submerged, then you ride up on top with a shout.  Cubenic said the Sieur stood it as bravely as any Indian.  Why ­if your boat was overturned you could swim.”

“But there’s a current that sucks you in.  And there’s a strange woman, a windigo, who haunts the rapids and drags you down and eats you.”

“I don’t believe such nonsense.  In one of the Sieur’s books there is a story of some people who believed there was a spirit in everything.  There were gods of the waters, of the trees, of the winds, and the Indians are much like them.  I’ve never found any of their gods, have you?”

“No” ­rather reluctantly.  “But Wanamee has.  And sometimes they bring back dead people.”

“Then they don’t always eat them,” and the boy laughed.

She had meant to tell miladi of her tryst and beg her to come out and see the star, but when she found her not only indifferent, but fretful, she refrained and was glad presently that she had this delicious secret to herself.  But there was a great mystery.  Sometimes the star was different.  Instead of being golden, it was a pale blue, and then almost red.  Was it that way in France, she wondered.

She came to have a strange fondness for the stars, and to note their changes.  Was it true that the old people M’sieu Ralph had read about, the Greeks, had seen their gods and goddesses taken up to the sky and set in the blue?  There were thrones mounted with gems, there were figures that chased each other; to-night they were here, to-morrow night somewhere else.  But the star that came out first was hers, and she sent a message across the ocean with it.  And the star said in return, “I am thinking of you.”

He did think of her, and tried to trace out some parentage.  Catherine Defroy had gone from St. Malo, a single woman.  Then by all the accounts he could find she must have spent two years in Paris.  Clearly she was not mother of the child.

After all, what did it matter?  Rose would probably spend her life in New France.  If it was never proven that she came of gentlefolks, Laurent Giffard would hardly consent to his wife’s mothering her.  He had a good deal of pride of birth.

The winter passed away and this year spring came early, unchaining the streams and sending them headlong to the rivers; filling the air with the fragrant new growth of the pines, hemlocks, and cedars, the young grasses, and presently all blossoming things.  The beauty touched Rose deeply.  No one understood, so she only talked of these strange things to the trees and the stars at night.  Often she was a merry romp, climbing rocks, out in a canoe, which she had learned to manage perfectly, though sometimes Pani accompanied her, sometimes Pierre Gaudrion, who was growing fast and making himself very useful to Du Parc.

As for the Sieur, he found much to engross his attention.  There was a new trading company that had the privilege of eleven years.  There was another volume of voyages and discoveries, the maps and illustrations finely engraved.  Then he had laid before the secretary of the King the urgent need of some religious instruction.  Acadia had quite a thriving Jesuit mission.  This order was not in high favor with Champlain, who deprecated their narrowness.  The Sieur Houel recommended the Recollets, and four willing missionaries were finally chosen.  The company had fitted up a large vessel and were taking all the stores they could purchase or beg, and quite a number of emigrants of a better class than heretofore.

They were all warmly welcomed, and found the colonists in very good order.  The enthusiastic priest startled them by kneeling on the soil and devoutly consecrating it to God, and giving thanks that He had called them to this new and arduous field of labor.  The coarse gray cassock girt at the waist with a bit of rope, the pointed hood, which often hung around their necks and betrayed the shaven crown, their general air of poverty and humility attracted attention, but did not so much appeal to the colonists or the Indians.  They were fearful of the new order of things.

Quebec had enlarged her borders somewhat.  The one-roomed hut had spread out into two or three apartments.  The gardens had increased.  Some roads had been made, the workmen taking the stone quarried to add to their own houses.  Still they received the fathers with a certain degree of cordiality.

Champlain set aside ground for their convent, and they first erected an altar and celebrated Mass.  Pere Dolbeau was the officiating priest.  The people, most of whom came from curiosity, knelt around on the earth, while cannon from the ramparts announced the mystic services.  The Giffards joined in them reverentially, but Rose was full of wonderment.  Indeed, her joy was so great at seeing Destournier again that she could give thanks for nothing else.

Then they erected a rude hut and discussed the work that lay before them.  Le Caron would go to the Hurons, Dolbeau to the Montagnais, Jamay and Du Plessis would take charge of Quebec and the outlying provinces, and planned to build a chapel.

Destournier had been successful with his grant.  He bad been made seignior of a large tract outside of the town, which was destined one day to be a part of it.  Here he settled some friendly Indians, and several of the new-comers, who were to till the soil under his directions, and raise different crops to ward off the scarcity of rations in the winter.  He would build a house for himself and live among them.

“But why not remain in the fort?” asked miladi.  “What charm can you find with those ignorant people?  Though perhaps peas and beans, radishes and cabbages may console one for more intellectual pursuits.”

“I shall only spend the days with them at present,” he returned, with a smile.

And now again came the influx of the fur-traders.  It had been a good season and from the new settlement of Montreal to Tadoussac, vessels were packing away the precious freight.  Champlain had gone with a body of soldiers to help defend a town the Iroquois had threatened to attack.  The missions thus far had borne no fruit.  Indeed the new teaching of the Recollets in its severity was not pleasant.  The Hurons were seized with a panic after losing several of their leaders and the Sieur was wounded.  All winter the people at Quebec waited anxiously for their leader, and parties set out to see if they could find any tidings.  At last they were sighted, and great was the joy at finding their beloved chieftain well and unharmed.  But he was not allowed to remain long in his pet settlement.  There were disputes and altercations, and he was summoned to France.

“Another year we shall go ourselves,” announced Laurent Giffard to his wife.  “We have enough now to make ourselves comfortable, and I doubt if the company can weather through.  At all events I shall be glad to be well out of it.  Art thou glad of the prospect?”

“There is great commotion with the King and his mother, and between Huguenot and Catholic,” she made answer slowly.  “Does the Sieur Destournier throw up his schemes in disgust as well?”

“Ah, I think he is wedded to the soil.  The Governor trusts everything to him, and Du Parc, and both are capable men.  But truth to tell I have lost faith in the colony.  I hear the Virginians and the Bostonnais are doing much better.  France cannot, or will not, spend the money, nor send the men to put the place on a sure foundation.  The Indians grow more troublesome.  They hate being meddled with by the priests.  They take wives when they want them, and send them away when they are tired of them.  They torture prisoners ­some day the priests will have a taste of it themselves.”

“They are all horrible,” she said, with a shiver.

“And we will go back to La Belle France.  I fancy I can manage a sort of preferment with Dubissay, who has the ear of the Queen mother at present.  At all events I am tired of this turmoil, and thou, ma mie, art wasting thy beauty in this savage land.”

He stooped and kissed her.  If he had been ready last year, she would have hailed the prospect with delight.  Why did it not seem so attractive now?

“And the child?” she asked presently, her eyes fixed on the floor.

Was the tone indifferent?

“How much dost thou love her, ma mie?  At first thy heart was sore for the loss of our own, but time heals all such wounds.  Destournier left no stone unturned to discover her parentage, and failed.  I think she has been some one’s love child.  True we could give her our name, and with a good dowry she could marry well.  But she will want some years of convent training to tone her down.”

“And if we should leave her here?  Though they say Miladi de Champlain comes over soon, and there may be a court with maids of honor.”

He laughed.  “What I fancy is this, though I am no seer.  Destournier is fond of her, fatherly now, but she is shooting up into a tall girl.  There will not be so many years between them as the Sieur and Mademoiselle Boulle.  And some day he will take her to wife.  ’Twere a pity to spoil the romance.  She adores him.”

Miladi bit her lip hard, and drew her brow into a sharp frown.

“What nonsense!” she made answer.

“Destournier is a fine fellow, and will be a rich one some day.”

“The more need that he should marry in his own station.”

“But there is talk of reproducing home titles in this new land.  And Baron Destournier can raise his wife to his own station.  If the child should not be amenable to training, or develop some waywardness, there might be sorrow, rather than joy or satisfaction in thine heart.”

“There will be time enough to consider,” she returned.

He left the room.  She went out on the shady side of the gallery, and looked down over the town.  The two under discussion a moment ago were climbing the steep rocks instead of taking the path where steps were cut.  The wind blew her shining hair about, her face was filled with ripples of laughter.  He took her arm and she would have no help, but sprang like a deer from point to point, then turned to throw her merriment at him.

“Yes, miladi would take her to France.  What if some day he should follow?”

The Governor spent a month in intense satisfaction, enlarging the borders of his pet garden, talking with M. Hebert, who had been watching the growth of some fine fruit trees imported from northern France, that had blossomed and were perfecting a few specimens of fruit.  He thought sometimes it would be a joy to give up all cares and rest in cultivating the soil.  If the summers were short everything grew abundantly.  There were several rare plants, also, that they had acclimated.

“Bring thy wife over and be content,” advised M. Hebert, in a cordial tone, “and enjoy the governorship.”

M. de Champlain laughed.  But presently he said:  “Friend, you little know the delights of an explorer who brings new countries to light, who builds cities that may continue after him.  The route to India has not yet been located.  The fields of gold and silver have not been discovered.  The lilies of France have not been planted over there,” nodding his head.  “We must go before the Spaniard gets a foothold.  Yet there are delights I must confess that even Horace longed for ­a garden.”

But if he longed for it at times he found the restless current hurrying him on.  Some disaffected members of the company were bringing charges against him, desiring to depose him from the governorship.  But Conde, who had again come into power, knew there was not another man who would work so untiringly for the good of New France, or make it bring in such rich returns.