o! Marc Dupre does better at the lovemaking than at the trapping! His
account at the factory suffers from les amours!"

A childish voice broke in upon them, and Francette's impish face peeped
round the corner of the nearest cabin.

"Let it be, Marc Dupre," as the youth dropped his and from Maren's arm.
"Ma'amselle does not object,--a trapper or a cavalier, all are fish to
Ma'amselle's net. Mon Dieu! If all were so attractive as Ma'amselle!"

The little maid sighed in exaggerated dolour.

Dupre flashed round on his moccasined heel and reached her in a stride.

"Aha! It is you, by all the saints!" he said beneath his breath, as he
took her none too gently by the shoulder. "I know your tricks."

Aloud he said, "Francette, children should keep from where they are not
wanted. Get you back to your mother."

"Children, you say, M'sieu Dupre? Is eighteen so far behind twenty-two?
Grow a beard on your cheek before you give yourself the airs of a
man. And, anyway, grown men of twice eighteen have been known to love
children of that age."

It was a dagger thrust, and it found its mark even as the girl glanced
slily at her victim. Maren's full mouth twitched and she looked dully
away to the fort gate. Dupre gave Francette an ungallant push. "Begone!"
he cried angrily; "you little cat!"

With a ringing laugh the maid danced away in the sunshine, and Dupre
faced Maren.

"It is that imp of le diable, Francette?" he asked. "What has she done
to you, Ma'amselle?"

But Maren shook her head.

"The maid is not to blame. She is but a child in spirit and what le bon
Dieu has seen fit to give her has gone to her head. That is all, save as
your quick eye has detected, M'sieu, I have received a heavy hurt."

Suddenly, with that whimsical youthfulness of soul which glimmered at
times through her apparent strength, she looked at Dupre with a sort of
fright.

"Merci, M'sieu! For what reason does the good God let some things
befall?... But I have still a stone. Throughout I will remember that."

In a moment she was gone, walking toward the cabin of Micene Bordoux,
and Marc Dupre went on his quest of Pierre, wondering and all a-tremble
with pity and thought of that promise.

Where Marc, with the revelation of adoration, had seen sharply, Micene
with her good sense felt vaguely that something was wrong with the
intrepid leader of the long trail.

"Maren," she said this day, as she took the bread pan which had been
borrowed, "I fe