tic spirits.

"You have made two friends," he called in French.

She looked up and nodded, laughing. "They are learning to make the
music of the white brothers."

The boys' faces had sobered at the sound of his voice. They looked at
him doubtfully, and then at each other. He got up and walked slowly
toward them.

"I will make friends, too, Mademoiselle," he said, smiling. "We have
none too many here."

Before he had taken a dozen steps, the boys arose. He held out his
hands, saying, "Your father would be friends with his children." But
they began to retreat, a step at a time.

"Come, my children," said the maid, smiling at the words as she
uttered them. "The white father is good. He will not hurt you."

They kept stepping backward until he had reached the maid's side;
then, with a shout of defiance, they scampered away. In the distance
they stopped, and soon were the centre of a group of children whom
they taught to blow on the grass-blades, with many a half-frightened
glance toward Menard and the maid.

"There," he said, at length, "you may see the advantage of a
reputation."

She looked at him, and, moved by the pathos underlying the words,
could not, for the moment, reply.

"I once had a home in this village," he added. "It stood over there,
in the bare spot near the beech tree." His eyes rested on the spot for
a moment, then he turned back to the hut.

"M'sieu," she said shyly.

The little heap of flowers lay where she had dropped them; and, taking
them up, she arranged them hastily and held them out. "Won't you take
them?"

He looked at her, a little surprised, then held out his hand.

"Why,--thank you. I don't know what I can do with them."

They walked back together.

"You must wear some of the daisies, Mademoiselle. They will look
well."

She looked down at her torn, stained dress, and laughed softly; but
took the white cluster he gave her, and thrust the stems through a
tattered bit of lace on her breast.

Menard was plainly relieved by the incident. He had been worn near to
despair, facing a difficulty which seemed every moment farther from a
solution; and now he turned to her fresh, light mood as to a refuge.

"We must put these in water, Mademoiselle, or they will soon lose
their bloom."

"If we had a cup--?"

"A cup? A woodsman would laugh at your question. There is the spring,
here is the birch; what more could you have?"

"You mean--?"

"We will make a cup,--if you will ho