She lingered around in the old garden and the happy light came back to her eyes, the balmy air soothed her ruffled temper. In her secret heart she believed M. Laflamme had really loved her. If there were other pretty girls in the world, there were other rich girls, too. In Canada, where he was going, there were real heiresses, though how much it took to constitute one she had no idea.
He did not come through the garden. Perhaps he meant to stay to supper. Then she would be rather grave and dignified, and show him that he had seriously offended her.
"Renée! Renée, _petite_!" called Mère Lunde.
There was a quick stride down the street. It turned the corner. She pulled a rose and unthinkingly pressed it to her lips.
"André!" she said in a rather appealing tone.
The tall figure bent over the fence, and the eyes were touched with an eager, responsive light.
"André, were you _very_ angry? I was----"
"Oh, ma'm'selle, who could long be angry with one so charming?" and his whole heart was in his voice.
She gave him the rose. "I must run in to supper," and she vanished like a sprite.
"She kissed the rose," he said, pressing it to his lips. "Oh, ma'm'selle, no sweeter flower ever bloomed. But you are a rose set in thorns. The fragrance clings to you, the thorns prick others."
There was news enough at Madame Renaud's. Every year she grew a little stouter, a trifle more consequential. The grandmères always were. Elise and Louis both had little daughters. There had been sons before, but granddaughters were rather nearer, it seemed. She must make a christening cake for both, and she thanked the saints that the church had been freshened up a little and that the good Vicar-General had made a gift of a new altar cloth.
The other news was not so joyous. Barbe Gardepier had never been home since her marriage. Women travelled very seldom in those days. Once her baby boy had been born and died, then her little girl was just born. And now she had lost her husband, and was coming back to St. Louis to live.
Jean Gardepier had died early in the winter. But news was slow in coming. This had been sent with the first relay of boats, and she would be up in June with her little girl.
"And to think of the sorrow of the poor thing!" exclaimed Madame Renaud, wiping her eyes. "Here I have my good man Louis and my four children around me, three of them in homes of their own, and never a sorrow, while she is left alone to sup bitter grief! And not a relative near her! The saints be praised when it is possible for families to stay together. Then there is a friendly voice to console you."