As if his eyes had summoned her, she turned toward him.  Out here in God’s wide, beautiful world they could be the same friends, and not fret any one.  It might have been dangerous if he had not been so upright a man, with no subtle reasonings, and she less simple-hearted.

“I have been helping Evening Star arrange her house.  She is anxious to be like a Frenchwoman, and has put off many Indian ways since she became a convert.”

“But you do not give her her Christian name,” and he smiled.

“Maria Assunta!  It isn’t half as pretty.  She has such lovely deep eyes, and such velvety skin that her Indian name suits her best.  What does it matter?”

“Perhaps it helps them to break away from Indian superstitions.  I do see some improvement in the women, but the men ­”

She laughed lightly.  “The women were better in the beginning.  They were used to work.  And all the braves care for is hunting and drinking bouts.  If I were a priest, I should consider them hardly worth the trouble.”

“A fine priest you would make.  They consider you half a heretic.”

“I go to chapel, M’sieu, when one can get there.  I know a great many prayers, but they are much alike.  I would like all the world to be upright and good, but I do not want to stay in a stifling little box until my breath is almost gone, and my knees stiff, saying a thing over and over.  M’sieu, I can feel the Great Presence out on the beautiful rocks, as I look down on the river and watch the colors come and go, amber and rose, and greens of so many tints; and the music that is always so different.  Then I think God does not mean us to shut it all out and be melancholy.”

“You were ever a wild little thing.”

“I can be grave, M’sieu, and silent, when there is need, for others.  But I cannot give up all of my own life.  I say to my heart ­’Be still, it is only for a little while’ ­then comes the dance of freedom.”

She laughed, with a ripple of music.

“I wonder,” he began, after a pause, watching her lithe step and the proud way she carried her head ­“I wonder if you would like to cross the ocean, to go to France?”

“With the beautiful Madame?  It is said she is to sail as soon as the boats are loaded.”

“Miladi might go with her.  I could not be spared.  And you ­”

He saw the sudden, great throb that moved her breast up to her very shoulders.

“I should not want to go,” in a quiet tone.

“But if I found at the last hour that I could go?”

She drew a long breath.  “M’sieu, I have no desire to see France.  I hear you and the Governor talk about it, and the great court where the King spends his time in foolishness, and the Queen Mother plots wicked schemes.  And they throw people in prison for religion’s sake.  Did I hear a story of some people who were burned at the stake?  Why, that is as cruel as the untaught Indians.  And to cross the big, fearful ocean.  Last summer we sailed up to the great gulf, you know, and you could see where the ocean and sky met.  No, I like this old, rocky place the best.”

“But if miladi wanted you to go very much?”

“She will not want me very much, in her heart,” and she glanced up so straightforwardly that he flushed.  “No, you will leave me here and I will be very religious.  I will go to the chapel every Sunday and pray.  I will have a prie-dieu in one corner, and kneel many times a day, praying that you will come back safely.  I shall have something real to pray for then.  And ­miladi will be very happy.”

There was a fervor, touching in its earnestness, that penetrated his soul.

“You will not miss me much,” he ventured.

The quick tears sprang to her eyes.

“Oh, yes, I should miss you,” and her voice had a little tremble in it.  “But you would return.  Oh, yes, I know the good God would send you back.  See how many times he has sent the Sieur de Champlain back!”

She raised her face to his, and though the tears still beaded her long lashes, the lips smiled adorably.  He could have kissed her, but his fine respect told him that endearment was sacred to another man now.

“I do not think I shall go.  Some one must be here to see that things do not go to wreck.”

She wondered if miladi would go without him.  They walked on silently.  He was thinking of the other man.  The Sieur hoped to persuade some better-class emigrants on his next voyage.

Whether miladi would have gone or not could not be known.  She was taken quite ill.  The doctor came down from Tadoussac, and said she would not be strong enough to stand such a long voyage.

Wanamee was her indefatigable nurse when her husband was away, as he was compelled to be in the daytime.  On a few occasions she insisted that Rose should read from some old volumes of poems.  She used to watch, with strange, longing eyes.  Ah, if she could be young again, and strong.  Did M’sieu Ralph often think of the years between, and that some time in the future she would be an old woman!  He appeared to grow more vigorous and younger.

There were busy times in the little town.  The traders seemed to be rougher every year.  They were not much inside the palisade, but they set up booths and tents on the shore edge, and there was much drinking and chaffering.

“Thou must not go outside of the palisade,” said Destournier to Rose.  “There are many rude, drunken men about.”

She did not demur.  In truth she spent many hours comforting the Indian women for the loss of their angel lady, whom they had truly worshipped, and whom, in their vague ignorant fashion, they had confused with the Virgin.  But she had wearied of the wildness and the lack of the society of the nuns that she loved so dearly.  Two of her maids would return with her, the other had married.

And though she had not made very warm friends with Madame Destournier, she would have liked her companionship on the long voyage.  And miladi was really sorry to have the break, since there were so few women, even if she did tire of her religion.

“If we do not meet again here,” Madame Helene said, in her sweetly-modulated voice, that savored of the convent, “it is to be hoped we shall reach the home where we shall rest with the saints, when the Divine has had His will with us.  Farewell, my sister, and may the Holy Virgin come to your assistance in the darkest hours.”

Then she knelt and prayed.  Miladi shuddered.  Was she going to die?  Oh, no, she could not.

The vessel came down from Tadoussac.  All the river was afloat, as usual, at this season.  A young man sprang off and pressed his sister’s hand warmly.

The Heberts, with their son and daughter, the married maid and her husband and several others, who had stood a little in awe of the Governor’s lady, were there to wish her bon voyage.  Her husband assisted her, with the tenderest care.  Was he happy with her, when she was only half his age?  M. Destournier wondered.

When they started, a salute was fired.  He was leaving his new fort but half completed.

“Who was that pretty young girl who kept so close to the Heberts?” Eustache Boulle asked his sister.  “There, talking to that group of Indian women.”

“Oh, that is M. Destournier’s ward.  Surely, you saw her when you first came here, though she was but a child then.  A foundling, it seems.  Good Father Jamay was quite urgent that she should be sent home, and spend some years in a convent.”

“And she refused?  She looks like it.  Oh, yes, I remember the child.”

“Beauty is a great snare where there is a wayward will,” sighed the devoted Helene.  “It is no country for young girls of the better class.  Though no one knows to what class she really belongs.”

Eustache fell into a dream.  What a bright attractive child she had been.  How could he have forgotten her?  He was two-and-twenty now, and his man’s heart had been stirred by her beauty.

If Rose was not so much of a devote she began to make herself useful to many of the Indian converts who missed their dear lady.  To keep their houses tidy, to learn a little about the useful side of gardening, and how their crops must be tended, to insure the best results.  The children could be set to do much of this.

Quebec fell back to its natural state.  There was no more carousing along the river, no drunken men wrangling in the booths, no affrays.  Rose could ramble about as she liked, and she felt like a prisoner set free.  Madame Destournier was better, and each day took a sail upon the river, which seemed to strengthen her greatly.  Presently they would spend a fortnight at the new settlement, Mont Real.  Many things were left in the hands of M. Destournier, and his own affairs had greatly increased.

One afternoon Rose had espied a branch of purple plums, that no one had touched, on a great tree that had had space and sun, but fruited only on the southern side.  No stick or stone could dislodge them.  How tempting they looked, in their rich, melting sheen.

“I must have some,” she said, eyeing the size of the trunk, the smooth bark, and the distance before there was any limb.  Then she considered.  Finding a crotched stick, a limb that had been broken off in some high wind, she caught it in the lowest branch and gently pulled it down until she grasped it with her hand.

Yes, it was tough.  She swung to it.  Then she felt her way up cautiously, like a cat, and when she swung near enough, caught one arm around the tree trunk.  It was a hard scramble, but she stood upon it triumphantly.  It bore her weight, yet she must go higher, for she could not reach the temptingly-laden limb.  Now and then a branch swayed ­if she had her stick up here that she had dropped so disdainfully when she had captured the limb.

“It is a good thing to be sure you will not want what you fling away,” she said to herself, sententiously.

“Aha!” She had caught the limb and drew it in carefully.  There she sat, queen of a solitary feast.  Were ever plums so luscious!  Some of the ripest fell to the ground and smashed, making cones of golden red, with a tiny cap of purple at the top.

In the old Latin book she still dipped into occasionally there were descriptions of orchards laden with fruit that made the air around fragrant.  She could imagine herself there.

In that country there were gods everywhere, by the streams, where one named Pan played on pipes.  What were pipes that could emit music?  The nooks hid them.  The zéphyrs repeated their songs and laments.

There was a swift dazzle and a bird lighted on the branch above her, and poured out such a melodious warble that she was entranced.  A bird from some other tree answered.  Ah! what delight to eat her fill to measures of sweetest music, and she suddenly joined in.

The young fellow who had been following a beaten path paused in amaze.  Was it a human voice?  It broke off into a clear, beautiful whistle that, striking against a ledge of rock, rebounded in an echo.  He crept along on the soft grass, where the underbrush had some time been fired.  The tree was swaying to and fro, and a shower of fruit came to the ground.

He drew nearer and then he espied the dryad.  From one point he could see a girl, sitting in superb unconcern.  Was it the one he had been searching for diligently the last hour?  How had she been able to perch herself up there?

Presently she had taken her fill of the fruit, of swinging daintily to and fro, of watching the sun-beams play hide-and-seek among the distant fir trees, that held black nooks in their shade, of studying with intense ecstasy the wonderful colors gathering around the setting sun, for which she had no name, but that always seemed as if set to some wondrous music.  Every pulse stirred within her, making life itself sweet.

She stepped down on the lower limb.  It would be rather rough to slide down the tree trunk, but she had not minded it in her childhood.  The other way she had often tried as well.  She held on to the limb above, and walked out on hers, until it began to sway so that she could hardly balance herself.  Then she gave one spring, and almost came down in the young man’s arms.

She righted herself in a moment, and stared at him.  There was something familiar in the soft eyes, in the general contour of the face.

“You do not remember me!”

“Let me think,” she said, with a calmness that amused him.  “Yes, it comes to me.  I saw you on the boat that conveyed Madame de Champlain.  You are her brother.”

“Eustache Boulle, at your service,” and he bowed gracefully.  “But I did not know you, Mam’selle.  You were such a child four years ago.  Even then you made an impression upon me.”

She was so little used to compliments that it did not stir her in the slightest.  She was wondering, and at length she said ­

“How did you find me?”

“By hard searching, Mam’selle.  I saw your foster-mother ­I believe she is that ­and she gave me a graphic description of your wanderings.  I paused here because the beauty of the place attracted me.  And I heard a voice I knew must be human, emulating the birds, so I drew nearer.  Will you forgive me when I confess I rifled your store?  What plums these are!  I did not know that Canada could produce anything so utterly delicious.  We have some wild sour ones that get dried and made eatable in the winter, when other things are scarce.  And the Indians make a queer-tasting drink out of them.”

“I found this tree quite by accident.  I never saw it before, and if you will look, there are only two branches that have any fruit.  The other side of the tree is barren.  And that high branch will give the birds a feast.  I do not think I could venture up there,” laughing.

“I wondered how you ventured at all.  And how you dared come down that way.”

His eyes expressed the utmost admiration.

“Oh,” she answered carelessly, “that was an old trick of mine, my childhood’s delight.  I used to try how far I could walk out before the limb would give me warning.”

“But if it had broken?”

“Why, I should have jumped, all the same.  You did not go with your sister and M. de Champlain.”

“I had half a mind to, then I reconsidered.”

She met his gaze calmly, as if she was wondering a little what had prevented him.

“And I came to Quebec.  It begins to grow.  But we want something beside Indians.  M. Destournier has settled quite a plantation of them, and my sister has believed in their conversion.  But when one knows them well ­he has not so much faith in them.  They are apt to revert to the original belief, crude superstitions.”

“It is hard to believe,” the girl said slowly.

“That depends.  Some beliefs are very pleasant and appeal to the heart.”

“But is it of real service to God that one rolls in a bed of thorns, or walks barefoot over sharp stones, or kneels all night on a hard, cold floor?  There are so many beautiful things in the world, and God has made them ­”

“As a snare, the priest will tell you.  Mam’selle, thou hast not been made for a devotee.  It would be a great loss to one man if thou shouldst bury all these charms in a convent.”

“I do not know any man who would grieve,” she made answer indifferently.

“But you might,” and a peculiar smile settled about his lips.

“I am going to take home as many of these plums as I can carry.  Madame Destournier is not well, and has a great longing for different things.  I found some splendid berries yesterday which she ate with a relish.  Sickness gives one many desires.  I am glad I am always well.  At least I was never ill but once, and that was long ago.”

She sprang up and began to look about her.  “If I could find some large leaves ­”

“I will fill my pockets.”

She looked helplessly at her own garments, and then colored vividly, thinking if this young man were not here she would gather a lapful.  Why should she have this strange consciousness?

Nothing of service met her gaze, and she drew her brow into a little frown.  It gave her a curious piquancy, and interested him.  She had spirit.

“Oh, I know!  What a dullard I was.  Those great flaring dockweeds do not grow about here.  But something else will answer.”

She ran over to an old birch tree and tore off great pieces of bark, then gathering some half-dried grasses, began to fashion a sort of pail, bending up the edges to make the bottom.  She was so quick and deft, it was a pleasure to watch her.  Then she filled it with the choicest of the fruit.  There was still some left.

“We might have another feast,” he suggested.

“I have feasted sufficiently.  Let us make another basket.  It can be smaller than this.”

It was very pleasant to dally there in the woods.  He was unnecessarily awkward, that the slim fingers might touch his, and her little laugh was charming.

“Allow me to carry the larger one,” and he reached for it.

“No, no.  You are weighted in the pockets.  And these are choice.  I will have no one take part in them.”

She drew herself aside and began to march with a graceful, vigorous step, her head proudly poised on the arching neck that, bared to summer suns and wind, yet was always white.  The delicious little hollow, where the collar bones met, was formed to lay kisses in, and be filled with warm, throbbing lips.  Yes, he was right in coming back to Quebec, she was more enchanting than the glimpse of her had been.

“Why do you look at me so?” she cried, with a kind of quick repulsion she did not understand, but it angered her.

“It is the homage we pay to beauty, Mam’selle.”

“Your sister is beautiful,” she said, with an abruptness that was almost anger.

“So thought the Sieur de Champlain, and I believe she was not offended at it.”

“I am not like that,” she declared decisively.  “She was fair as a lily, and Father Jamay said she had the face of a saint.”

“I am not so partial to saints myself.  And my brother-in-law would have been better satisfied, I do believe, if she had been less saintly.”

She looked a trifle puzzled.

“It is long since you left France,” she commented irrelevantly.

“I was not seventeen.  It is six years ago.”

“Do you mean to go back?”

“Sometime, Mam’selle.  Would you like to go?”

“No,” she said decidedly.

“But why not?” amused.

“Because I like Quebec.”

“It is a wretched wilderness of a place.”

“Madame Destournier talks about France.  Why, if Paris is all gayety and pleasure, are people put in dungeons, and then to death?  And there seem so many rulers.  They are not always good to the Sieur, either.”

“They do not understand.  But these are too weighty matters for a young head.”

“Why do they not want a great, beautiful town here!  All they care about is the furs, and the rough men and Indians spoil the summer.  I like to hear the Sieur tell what might be, houses and castles, and streets, instead of these crooked, winding paths, and ­there are fine shops, where you buy beautiful things,” glancing vaguely at him.

“Why should you not like to go thither then, if you can dream of these delights?”

“I want the Sieur to have his way, and do some of the things he has set his heart upon.  Miladi would like it too.  But I am well enough satisfied.”

She tossed her head in her superb strength.  He had not known many women, and they were older.  There was something in her fresh sweetness that touched him to the soul.

“This way, M’sieu.”  He was plunging ahead, keeping pace with some tumultuous thoughts.

“Ah !”

“And see ­you have been careless.  You are sowing plums along the way.  This is no place for them to take root.”

She gave a little laugh as well, though she had begun in a sharp tone.

He had pressed the side of his slight receptacle and made a yawning crack in it.

“Well, now you must gather that great leaf and patch it.  Here are some pine needles.  I sew with them sometimes.  You do not need a thread.”

Was she laughing at him?

He managed to repair the damages, and picked up the plums he had not trodden upon, that were yielding their wine-like fragrance to the air.

“Which way do you go, M’sieu?” she asked, with unconscious hauteur.

“Why ­to M. Destournier’s.  I called on miladi, and she sent me to find you in some wood, she hardly knew where.  And I have brought you safely back.”

“M’sieu, I have come back many a time in safety without you.”

Her voice had a suggestion of dismissal in it.

“I must present my spoils to Madame.  No, I believe they are yours, you were the discoverer, you made the purple shower that I only helped gather.”

She skipped up the steps lightly.  How dainty her moccasined feet were!  The short skirt showed the small ankles and the swell of the beautiful leg.  Her figure was not a whit behind his sister’s convent-trained one, but she was fearless as a deer.

Miladi sat out on the gallery in her chair, that could be moved about with ease by a small lever at the side.  Looking down at the youthful figures, the thought beset her that haunts all women, that here was material for a very fortunate match.  He was much superior to Pierre Gaudrion.

“The trophies of the hunt,” Boulle exclaimed gayly.  “The huntress and the most delicious harvest.  I have seen nothing like it.”

“I found some plums, a tree quite by itself, and only two branches of fruit.  We must send some of the best pits to M. Hebert.  And I shall plant a row in the Sieur’s garden.”

She brought out a dish and took them carefully from the birch-bark receptacle.  The exquisite bloom had not been disturbed.

“I will get a dish for yours,” she said to the young man.

“Mine were the gleanings,” he laughed.

Miladi’s eyes glowed at the sight of the feast.  Rose had not emptied all of hers out, and now she laid three beauties in the corner of the cupboard, looking around until she espied a pan.  Wooden platters were mostly used, even the Indian women were handy in fashioning them.

The young man had taken a seat and a plum, and was regaling his hostess with the adventure.

“Curious that I should find the place so easily,” and he smiled most beguilingly.  “Sometimes one seems led in just the right way.”

For several reasons he preferred not to say he had heard the singing.

“Yes,” and now she gave a soft, answering smile, as if there might be a mysterious understanding between them.  Miladi was often ennuied, now that she was never really well, and the sight and voice of a young man cheered her inexplicably.

“Every one knows her.  She is the most fearless thing.”

“I remember her when she was very little.  How tall she has grown.  A very pretty girl.”

“Youth always has a prettiness.  It is the roundness and coloring.  I often long to go back and have it all over again.  I should remain in France.  I do not see what there is in this bleak country to charm one.”

“There was some talk of your going with my sister, was there not?”

“Yes.  But I was too ill.  And M. Destournier thought he could not leave.  He has many interests here.”

Rose re-entered the room.

“I never tasted such delicious plums,” the elder commented, in a pleased tone.  “I want some saved as long as they will keep.”

“There is a quantity of them.  I should have had to make another journey but for M. Boulle,” and she dropped a charming little courtesy.

“We might see if we could not find another tree.”

“I doubt it.”

“Will you stay some time?” asked miladi.

“They can do without me a while.  Business is mostly over.”

She raised her eyes, and they said she was pleased with the plan.  Rose busied herself about the room, then suddenly disappeared.  She had seen M. Destournier coming up the crooked pathway, and with a parcel in her hand, went out to meet him.

“I thought of you.  Miladi was delighted with hers.  Some seagull must have brought the pit across the ocean.  It is so much finer than any we have around here.”

He broke it open, but the golden purple juice ran over his hand.

“It is the wine of sunshine.  Here is to thy health, Rose of Quebec.”

“M.  Boulle is in there,” nodding.  “He came out in the wood and found me up the tree,” and she laughed gayly.

“Found thee ­” Something sharp went to the heart of the man, and he looked down into the fearless eyes, with their gay, unsuspecting innocence.

“As if I could be lost in dear old Quebec!”

“Is it dear to thee?”

“Why, I have never known any other place, any other home.”

There were many knowledges beside that of childhood.  And among them one might be all-engrossing.