s and walls, and deep
fireplaces, and carvings done in the time of Louis Quinze, and dark-red
velvet curtains for the drawing-room, and skins and furs. Yes, I must have
skins and furs like these here." He smoothed the skins with his hand.

"Manette, she will live with you?" Pauline asked.

"Oh no, her husband wouldn't like that. You see, Manette is to be married.
She told me to tell you all about it."

He told her all that was to tell of Manette's courtship, and added that
the wedding would take place in the spring.

"Manette wanted it when the leaves first flourish and the birds come
back," he said, gayly; "and so she's not going to live with me at the
Seigneury, you see. No, there it is, as fine a house, good enough for a
prince, and I shall be there alone, unless--"

His eyes met hers, and he caught the light that was in them before the
eyelids drooped over them and she turned her head to the fire. "But the
spring is two months off yet," he added.

"The spring?" she asked, puzzled, yet half afraid to speak.

"Yes, I'm going into my new house when Manette goes into her new house--in
the spring. And I won't go alone if--"

He caught her eyes again, but she rose hurriedly and said: "You must sleep
now. Good-night." She held out her hand.

"Well, I'll tell you the rest to-morrow--to-morrow night, when it's quiet
like this, and the stars shine," he answered. "I'm going to have a home of
my own like this--ah, _bien sur_, Pauline."

That night the old Indian mother prayed to the Sun. "O great Spirit," she
said, "I give thanks for the Medicine poured into my heart. Be good to my
white child when she goes with her man to the white man's home far away. O
great Spirit, when I return to the lodges of my people, be kind to me, for
I shall be lonely; I shall not have my child; I shall not hear my white
man's voice. Give me good Medicine, O Sun and great Father, till my dream
tells me that my man comes from over the hills for me once more."

THE STAKE AND THE PLUMB-LINE

She went against all good judgment in marrying him; she cut herself off
from her own people, from the life in which she had been an alluring and
beautiful figure. Washington had never had two such seasons as those in
which she moved; for the diplomatic circle who had had "the run of the
world" knew her value, and were not content without her. She might have
made a brilliant match with one ambassador thirty years older than
herself--she was but