ung fellow will love
you and want to marry you."

"I will not marry him."

"Oh, my little girl, be reasonable. We shall all be happy here together.
And you will grow up to womanhood and learn many things that will please
you and be of great service. And will go to France some day----"

"I will not go anywhere with her. Unclasp my hands. I do not belong to
you any more, to no one, I am----"

She burst into a passion of weeping. In spite of her struggles he
clasped her to his heart and kissed the throbbing temples, that seemed
as if they would burst.

"Oh, Rose, my little one, whom I love as a child, and always shall love,
listen to me and be comforted."

"She will not let you love me. She will want me to be sent to France and
be put in a convent. Father Jamay said that was what I needed. Oh, you
will see!"

The sobs seemed to rend her small body. He could feel the beating of her
heart and all his soul was moved with pity, although he knew her grief
was unreasonable.

"And you are willing to make me very unhappy, to spoil all my pleasure
in the new home. Oh, my child, I hardly thought that of you."

She made another struggle and freed herself. She stood erect, it seemed
as if she had grown inches. "You may be happy with her," she said, with
a dignity that would have been amusing if it had not been sad, and then
she dashed out of the room.

He sat down and leaned his elbow on the table, his head on his hand. He
had gathered from several things miladi had suggested, that she was
rather indifferent to the child, but he did not surmise that Rose had
felt and understood it. No one had a better right than he, since in all
probability her parentage would remain unknown. He would not relinquish
her. She should be a daughter to him. He realized that he had a curious
love for the child, that she had attracted him from the first. In the
years to come her beauty and winsomeness would captivate a husband, with
the dowry he could give her.

For several days he saw very little of her. He was busy and miladi was
exigent. Rose wandered about, sometimes to the settlement, watching the
busy women dressing skins, making garments, cutting fringes, and
embroidering wampum for the braves. The tawny children played about, the
small papooses, strapped in their cases of bark, blinked and
occasionally uttered wearisome cries. Or she rowed about in her canoe,
often with Pani, for the river current was rather treacherous. Then she
scud