them the appetites of
the woods and wilds, hardly leaving crumbs for the birds.

After that there was dancing again and rambling around, and Pierre was
made much of by the mothers. It was a proud day for Madame De Ber, and
she glanced about among the girls to see whom of them she would choose
for a daughter-in-law. For now Pierre could have his pick of them all.

CHAPTER XI.

LOVE, LIKE THE ROSE, IS BRIERY.

Jeanne Angelot sat in the doorway in the moonlight silvering the street.
There were so many nooks and places in shadow that everything had a
weird, fantastic look. The small garrison were quiet, and many of them
asleep by nine o'clock. Early hours was the rule except in what were
called the great houses. But in this out of the way nook few pedestrians
ever passed in the evening.

"Child, are you not coming to bed? Why do you sit there? You said you
were tired."

Pani was crooning over a handful of fire. The May sunshine had not
penetrated all the houses, and her old blood had lost its heat.

"Yes, I was. What with the dancing and the walking about and all I was
very weary. I want to get rested. It is so quiet and lovely."

"You can rest in bed."

"I want to stay here a little while longer. Do not mind me, but go to
bed yourself."

The voice was tender, persuasive, but Pani did not stir. Now and then
she felt uncertain of the child.

"Was it not a happy day to you, _ma fille_?"

"Yes," with soft brevity.

Had it been happy? At different times during the past two years a
curious something, like a great wave, had swept over her, bearing her
away, yet slowly she seemed to float back. Only it was never quite the
same--the shores, the woods, the birds, the squirrels, the deer that
came and looked at her with unafraid eyes, impressed her with some new,
inexplicable emotion. What meaning was behind them?

But to-night she could not go back. She had passed the unknown boundary.
Her limited knowledge could not understand the unfolding, the budding of
womanhood, whose next change was blossoming. It had been a day of varied
emotions. If she could have run up the hillside with no curious eyes
upon her, sung with the birds, gathered great handfuls of daisies and
bell flowers, tumbled up the pink and yellow fungus that grew around the
tree roots, studied the bits of crisp moss that stood up like sentinels,
with their red caps, and if you trod on them bristled up again, or if
she could have climbed the tr