Eustache Boulle, the Governor’s brother-in-law, had been not a little surprised when his sister was helped off the vessel at Tadoussac.  He greeted her warmly.

“But I never believed you would come to this wild country,” he exclaimed, with a half-mischievous smile.  “I am afraid the Sieur has let his hopes of the future run riot in his brain.  He can see great things with that far gaze of his.”

“But a good wife follows her husband.  We have had a rather stormy and tiresome passage, but praised be the saints, we have at last reached our haven.”

“I hope you will see some promise in it.  We on the business side do not look for pleasure alone.”

“It is wild, but marvellously fine.  The islands with their frowning rocks and glowing verdure, the points, and headlands, the great gulf and the river are really majestic.  And you ­you are a man.  Two years have made a wondrous change.  I wish our mother could see you.  She has frightful dreams of your being captured by Indians.”

He laughed at that.

“Are the Indians very fierce here?” she asked timidly.

“Some tribes are, the Hurons.  And others are very easily managed if you can keep fire-water away from them.”

“Fire” ­wonderingly.

“Rum or brandy.  You will see strange sights.  But you must not get frightened.  Now tell me about our parents.”

The Sieur was quite angry when he heard some boats had been up the river, and bartered firearms and ammunition for peltries.  It was their desire to keep the white man’s weapons away from the savages.

Pontgrave had left a bark for the Governor, and Eustache joined them as they went journeying on to Quebec.  It was new and strange to the young wife, whose lines so far had been cast in civilized places.  The wide, ever-changing river, the rough, unbroken country with here and there a clearing, where parties of hunters had encamped and left their rude stone fireplaces, the endless woods with high hills back of them, and several groups of Indians with a wigwam for shelter, that interested her very much.  Braves were spread out on the carpet of dried leaves, playing some kind of game with short knives and smoking leisurely.  Squaws gossiping and gesticulating with as much interest as their fairer sisters, their attire new and strange, and papooses tumbling about.  They passed great tangles of wild grapes that scented the air, here and there an island shimmering with the bloom of blueberries.

Then the great cliff of Quebec came in sight.  Latterly it had taken on an aspect of decay that caused the Governor to frown.  The courtyard was littered with rubbish from a building that had actually fallen down, and a new one was being erected.  And though some of the houses were quite comfortable within, the exterior was very unattractive, from the different materials, like patches put on to add warmth in winter.

The cannon rang out a salute, and the lilies of France floated in the brilliant sunshine.  Officers and men had formed a sort of cordon, and from the gallery several ladies looked down and waved handkerchiefs.  The Heberts, with their son and daughter, a few other women, a little above the peasant rank, had joined them and Madame Giffard, who still essayed a rôle of delicacy.

The Sieur took formal possession again in the name of the new Governor General, the Duke of Montmorency.  Then they repaired to the little chapel, where the priest held a service of thanksgiving for their safe arrival.

The Recollets had chosen a site on the St. Charles river, some distance from the post, and had begun the erection of a church and convent, for headquarters.  Madame Champlain was pleased to hear this and held quite a lengthy talk with Pere Jamay, who was glad to find the new wife took a fervent interest in religion, for even among the French women he had not awakened the influence he had hoped for, in his enthusiasm.

Eustache began a tour of observation.  Perched on a rock with a great hemlock tree back of her, he saw a small human being that he was quite sure was not an Indian girl.  She was talking to something, and raised her small forefinger to emphasize her words.  What incantation was she using?

As he came nearer he saw it was a flock of pigeons.  She had been feeding them berries and grains of rye.  They arched their glossy necks and cooed in answer.  He watched in amaze, drawing nearer.  What sprite of the forest was this?

Did she feel the influence that invaded her solitude?  She glanced up with wide startled eyes at the intruder, and looked at first as if she would fly.

“Do not be afraid, I will not harm you,” said a clear, reassuring voice.  “Are you charming the wild things of the forest?  Your incantation was in French ­do they understand the language?”

“They understand me.”

There was a curious dignity in her reply.

“You are French, Mam’selle?”

“I came from France a long while ago, so long that I do not remember.”

“Was it in another life?  Are you human, or some forest nymph?  For you are not out of childhood.”

“I do not understand.”

“But you must belong to some one ­”

“No,” she said proudly.  “I have never really belonged to any one.  M’sieu Destournier is my good friend, and miladi took me when the Dubrays went to the fur country.  But she has been ill, and she does not like me as she used.”

“But you must have a home ­”

“I live at the post, mostly with Wanamee.  Some days my lady sends for me.  But I like out-of-doors, and the birds, and the blue sky, and the voice of the falling waters that are always going on, and the great gray rocks, where I find mossy little caves with red bloom like tiny papooses, and the tall grasses that shake their heads so wisely, as if they knew secrets they would never tell.  And the birds ­even some of the little lizards with their bright black eyes.  They are dainty, not like the snakes that go twisting along.”

“Are you not afraid of them?”

“I do not molest them,” calmly.

“You should have been down at the post.  The Governor’s wife has come.”

“Yes, I saw her.  And I did not like her.  But the Sieur was always kind to me.  He used to show me journeys on the maps, and the great lakes he has seen.  He has been all over the world, I believe.”

“Oh, no.  But I think he would like to.  Why do you not like Madame de Champlain?”

She studied him with a thoughtful gaze.

“M’sieu Ralph told me when he went to France he was betrothed to a pretty little French girl, and that some day he would bring her here to be his wife.  I was glad of the little girl.  I like Marie Gaudrion, but she has to care for the babies and ­she does not understand why I love the woods and the rocks.  And I thought this other little girl ­”

She was so naïve that he smiled, but it was not the smile to hurt one.

“She was a little girl then.  But every one grows.  Some day you will be a woman.”

“No, I will not.  I shall stay this way,” and she patted the ground decisively with her small foot, the moccasin being little more than a sandal, and showed the high arch and shapely ankle that dimpled with the motion.

“I am afraid you cannot.  But I think you will like Madame when you know her.  I am her brother, though I have not seen her for over two years.”

She studied him attentively.  The birds began to grow restless and circled about her as if to warn off the intruder.  Then she suddenly listened.  There was a familiar step climbing the rock.

M’sieu Destournier parted the hemlock branches.

“I thought I should find you here.  Why did you run away?  Ah, M. Boulle,” but the older man frowned a little.

“She left the company because my sister was grown up and not the little girl she imagined.  Is she a product of the forest?  Her very ignorance is charming.”

“I am not ignorant!” she returned.  “I can read a page in Latin, and that miladi cannot do.”

“She is a curious child,” explained Destournier, “but a sweet and noble nature, and innocent is the better word for it.  The birds all know her, and she has a tame doe that follows her about, except that it will not venture inside the palisade.  I’m not sure but she could charm a wolf.”

“The Loup Garou,” laughed the younger man.  “I think nothing would dare harm her.  But I should like my sister to see her.  Oh, I am sure you will like her, even if she is a woman grown.”

“Come,” said Destournier, holding out his hand.

The pigeons had circled wider and wider, and were now purplish shadows against the serene blue.  Rose sprang up and clasped Destournier’s hand.  But she was silent as they took their way down.

“Whatever bewitched my august brother-in-law about this place I cannot see.  Except that the new fort will sweep the river and render the town impregnable from that side.  It will be the key of the North.  But Montreal will be a finer town at much less cost.”

Rose was fain to refuse at the last moment, but M’sieu Ralph persuaded.  The few women of any note were gathered in the room miladi had first occupied.  Rose looked curiously at the daughter of M. Hebert ­she was so much taller than she used to be, and her hair was put up on her head with a big comb.

“Thou art a sweet child,” said Madame de Champlain.  “And whose daughter may she be?”

It was an awkward question.  Destournier flushed unconsciously.

“She is the Rose of Quebec,” he made answer, with a smile.  “Her parents were dead before she came here.”

“Ah, I remember hearing the Governor speak of her, and learned that there were so few real citizens in Quebec who were to grow up with the town as their birthright.  It is but a dreary-looking place, yet the wild river, the great gulf, the magnificent forests give one a sense of grandeur, yet loneliness.  And my husband says it is the same hundreds of miles to the westward; that there are lakes like oceans in themselves.  And such furs!  All Paris is wild with the beauty of them.  Yet they lie around here as if of no value.”

“You would find that the traders appraise them pretty well,” and he raised his brows a trifle, while a rather amused expression played about his eyes.

“Is there always such a turmoil of trade?”

“Oh, no.  The traders scatter before mid-autumn.  The cold weather sets in and the snow and ice are our companions.  The small streams freeze up.  But the Sieur has written of all these things in his book.”

He looked inquiringly at her for a touch of enthusiasm, but her sweet face was placid.

“Monsieur my husband desired that I should be educated in his religion in the convent.  We do not take up worldly matters, that is not considered becoming to girls and women.  We think more of the souls that may be saved from perdition.  The men go ahead to discover, the priests come to teach these ignorant savages that they have souls that must be returned to God, or suffer eternally.”

There spoke the devotee.  Destournier wondered a little how the Sieur had come to choose a devote for a wife.  For he was a born explorer, with a body and a will of such strength that present defeat only spurred him on.  But where was there a woman to match him, to add to his courage and resolve!  Perhaps men did not need such women.  Destournier was not an enthusiast in religious matters.  He had been here long enough to understand the hold their almost childish superstitions had on the Indians, their dull and brutish lack of any high motive, their brutal and barbarous customs.  They were ready to be baptized a dozen times over just as they would use any of their own charms, or for the gain of some trifle.

Madame seemed to study the frank face of the little girl.  How beautiful her eyes were; her eager, intelligent, spirited face; the fine skin that was neither light nor dark, and withstood sun and wind alike, and lost none of its attractive tints.  But she was so different from the little girls sent to the nuns for training.  They never looked up at you with these wide-open eyes that seemed to question you, to weigh you.

“There is no convent here where you can be taught?” addressing herself to the child.

“The fathers are building one.  But it is only for the men.  The women cook and learn to dress deerskins until they are like velvet.  They must make the clothing, for not a great deal comes from France.  And it would only do for ladies like you and Madame Giffard.”

“But there must be some education, some training, some prayers,” and the lady looked rather helpless.

She was very sweet and beautiful in her soft silken dress of gray, that was flowered in the same color, and trimmed with fur and velvet.  From her belt depended a chain of carved ivory beads and a crucifix, from another chain a small oval looking-glass in a silver frame.  Her flaring collar of lace and the stomacher were worked in pearls.  Many Parisians had them sewn with jewels.

“I can read French very well,” said Rose, after a pause.  “And some Latin.”

“Oh, the prayers, and some of the old hymns ­”

“No, it isn’t prayers exactly ­except to their gods.  There are so many gods.  Jove was the great one.”

“Oh, my child, this is heresy.  There is but one God and the Holy Virgin, and the saints to whom you can make invocation.”

“Well, then I think you have a number of gods.  Do you pray to them all?  And what do you pray for?”

“For the wicked world to be converted to God, for them to love Him, and serve Him.”

“And how do they serve Him?” inquired the child.  “If He is the great God Father Jamay teaches He can do everything, have everything.  It is all His.  Then why does He not keep people well, so they can work, and not blight the crops with fierce storms.  Sometimes great fields of maize are swept down.  And the little children die; the Indians kill each other, and at times the white men who serve them.”

“Oh, child, you do not understand.  There must be convents in this new world for the training of girls.  They must be taught to pray that God’s will may be done, not their own.”

“How would I know it was God’s will?” asked the irreverent child, decisively, yet with a certain sweetness.

“The good Father would tell you.”

“How would he know?”

“He lives a holy life in communion with God.”

“What is the convent like?” suddenly changing her thoughts.

“It is a large house full of little ones, the sisters’ cells, the novices’ cells ­”

“There are some at the post.  They put criminals in them.  They are filthy and dark,” with a kind of protesting vehemence.

“These are clean, because they are whitewashed, and you scrub the floor twice a week.  There is a little pallet on which you sleep, a prie-dieu ­”

“What is that?” interrupted the child.

“A little altar, with a stone step on which you kneel.  And a crucifix at the top, a book of prayer and invocation.  Many of the sisters pray an hour at midnight.  All pray an hour in the morning, then breakfast and the chapel for another hour, with prayers and singing.  After that the classes.  The little girls are taught the catechism and manners, if they are to go out in the world, sewing and embroidery.  At noon prayers again and a little lunch, then work out of doors for an hour, and running about for exercise, catechising again, singing, supper and a chapel hour, and then to bed.  But the nuns spend the evening in prayer, so do the devout.”

“Madame, I shall never go in a convent, if the Fathers build one for girls.  I like the big out-of-doors.  And if God made the world He made it for some purpose, that people should go out and enjoy it.  I like the wilderness, the great blue sky, the sun and the stars at night, the trees and the river, and the birds and the deer and the beautiful wild geese, as they sail in great flocks.  If I was shut up in a cell I should beat my head against the stones until it was a jelly, and then I should be dead.”

Madame de Champlain looked at the child in amaze.  In her decorous life she had known nothing like it.

“And I wish there were no women.  I do not like women any more.  Men are better because they live out of doors and do not pray so much.  Except the priests.  And they are dirty.”

Then she turned away and went out on the gallery, with a curiously swelling heart.  Oh, why was not Marie Gaudrion different?  What made people so unlike.  If there was some one ­

“Ha, little maid, where are you running to so fast?” exclaimed a laughing voice.  “Have you seen my sister yet?”

Eustache Boulle caught her arm, but she shook him off, and stood up squarely, facing him.  What vigor and resolution there was in her small bewitching face.

“Hi, hi! thou art a plucky little fille, ready for a quarrel by the looks of thy flashing eyes.  What have I done to thee, that thou shouldst shake me off as a viper?”

“Nothing!  I am not to be handled roughly.  I am going my way, and I think it will not interfere with thine.”

A pleasant smile crossed his face which made him really attractive, and half disarmed her fierceness.

“My way is set in no special lines until I return to Tadoussac.  Hast thou seen my sister?”

She nodded.

“Every one loves her.  She is as good as she is beautiful.  And she will charm thee,” in a triumphant tone, gathering that the interview had not already done this.

“I am not to be charmed in that fashion.  Yes, she is beautiful, but she would like me to be put in a convent.  And I would throw myself in the river first.”

“There are no convents, little one.  And but few people to put into them.  In a new country it is best that they marry and have families.  When there are too many women then convents play a useful part.”

“Let me pass,” she cried disdainfully, but not trying to push aside.

“Tell me where you go!”

“To Mere Gaudrion’s to see that soft-headed Marie.  I wish she had some ideas, but she is good and cheerful, and does as she is told.”

“You are not very complimentary to your friend.”

“But if I said she had a bad temper, and told what was not true, and slapped her little brothers and sisters, that would be a falsehood.  And if I said she understood the song of the birds and the sough of the wind among the trees, and the running, tumbling little streams that are always saying ’oh! let me get to the gulf as soon as possible, for I want to see what a great ocean is like,’ it would not be true either.  I like Marie,” calmly.

“Thou art a curious little casuist.  I am glad you like her.  It shows that you are human.  There are strange creatures in the woods and wilds of this new world.”

“There is the Loup Garou, but I have not seen him.  He gets changed from a man to a fierce dog, and if you kill the dog, the man dies.  There is the Windigo, and the old medicine woman can call strange things out of a sick person who has been bewitched, and then he gets well.  But M. Destournier laughs at these stories.”

The young man had been backing slowly toward the steps and she had followed without taking note.

Now he said ­“Let me help you down.”

“I am not lame, M’sieu, neither am I blind.”

“Will you take me to see Marie Gaudrion?”

“You would laugh at her, I see it in your eyes.”

“Are my eyes such telltales?”

He had not the placid fairness of his sister, and his chestnut hair curled about his temples.  His cheeks were red enough for a girl.

“Why should you want to see her?”

“I want to see all there is in Quebec.  I want to know how the colony progresses.  I may put it in a book.”

“Like the Governor.  But you could not make maps out of people,” with an air of triumph.

“I’m not so sure.  See here.”

He drew from his pocket a roll and held one of the leaves before her eyes.

“Oh, that is old Temekwisa sitting out by the hut.  And, M’sieu, he looks half drunken, as he nearly always is.  And that is Jacques Barbeau breaking stone.  Why, it is wonderful.  And who else have you?”

There were several Indians in a powwow around the fire, there was a woman with a papoose on her back, and a few partly done.

“And the Sieur ­and your sister?” eagerly.

“I have tried dozens of times and cannot please myself.  The Indians have about the same salient points, and that lack of expression when they are tranquil.  They are easy to do.  And I can sometimes catch the fierce anger.  At home I would have a teacher.  Here I have to go by myself, try, and tear up.  Then I am busy with many other things.”

Her resentment had mostly subsided.  His gift, if it could be called that, fascinated her.  She had reproduced wonderful pictures in her brain, but to do them with her hand would be marvellous, like the Sieur writing his books.

They had reached the garden of the Gaudrions.  Pierre was employed regularly now and was studying the plans of the new fort.  Marie was seated on the grass, cutting leather fringe for garments and leggings.  You could use up otherwise useless bits that way.  The Mere was farther down pulling weeds from the carrot bed, and directing the labors of two children, at whom she shook a switch now and then.  Marie had a baby on each side of her, tumbling about in the grass.

She looked up and nodded, while a heavy sort of smile settled about her lips, the upper one protruding a little, on account of two prominent teeth.  Eustache had seen the peasant type at home, the low forehead, the deep-set eyes, the short nose, flattened at the base, the wide mouth and rather broad, unmeaning countenance, the type of women who bear burthens without complaining and do not resent when they are beaten.  Marie had an abundance of blue-black hair, a clear skin, and a soft color in her cheeks.

Boulle glanced from one to the other, the lithe figure, the spirited face, the eyes that could flash and soften and sparkle with mirth almost in a minute, it seemed.  What a distance lay between them.

“Marie, this is” ­then Rose paused and flushed, and glanced at her unbidden companion.

“I am Eustache Boulle and my sister is the wife of the Governor de Champlain.  And though I have been up and down the river I have never really visited Quebec before.”

Marie nodded and went on cutting fringe.

“And he has done pictures ­Temekwisa, that you would know in a minute.  He did them with a pencil.  Show them to her,” she ordered, in a pretty peremptory manner, as with a graceful gesture of the hand she invited him to be seated on the grass, deftly rolling one baby over, who stared an instant, and then fell to sucking his fist.

Marie’s heavy face lighted up with a kind of cheerful surprise.

“Why did you not go up and see them come in?  And after the service of thanks, almost everybody went to see our dear Sieur’s wife.  She is beautiful in the face and wears a silken gown, and a little cap so fine you can see her hair through it.  And she has small hands that look like snow, but not many rings, like Madame Giffard.”

“Ma mere went to the prayers, but we could not both go.  I saw the line of boats and heard the salute.  And your sister will live here with the Governor?”

Eustache wanted to laugh, but commanded his countenance.

“Yes, though ’tis a dreary place to live in after gay France.  I long to go back.”

“They are to build a new fort.  My father will work on it, and my brother, Pierre.  And he wonders that you do not come oftener, Rose.”

“There has not been a moonlight in a long while.  I cannot come in the dark.  And now he wants his own way in all the plans and I like mine.  He has grown so big he is not amusing any more.”

“But he likes you just as well,” the girl said naively.

Eustache glanced.  Rose did not change color at this frank admission.

Then the gun boomed out to announce the day’s work for the government was over.

Rose sprang up.  “It will soon be supper time,” she said.

“Stay and have it with us.  There are some cold roasted pigeons, with spiced gravy turned over them.  You shall have a whole one.”

“You are very good, Marie, but there are so many men about who have been drinking too much, that M. Destournier would read me a long lecture.”

“But Pierre would walk up with thee.”

Eustache had gathered up his pictures.  They had only been an excuse to prolong his interview with Rose.

“I will see that no harm comes to your friend.  Adieu, Mam’selle,” and he bowed politely, at which Marie only stared.

“We are very good friends, are we not?” as he was parting with the pretty child.

“But I might not like you to-morrow,” archly.