A Little Girl in Old Detroit by Amanda Minnie Douglas (e reader comics .txt) 📖

back when they reached that point and saw her come flying. She was not so eager now and held back toward the last. Gaston came in with a shout of triumph and in two seconds Robert was at the goal. She laughed joyously. Their mother leaning over a railing laughed also and waved her handkerchief as they both glanced up.

"How old are you?" asked Robert.

"Almost sixteen, I believe."

"And we are eight."

"That is twice as old."

"And when we are sixteen we will run twice as fast, faster than the Indians. We shall win the races. We are going up North then. Don't you want to go?"

Jeanne shook her head.

"But then girls do not go fur hunting. Only the squaws follow, to make the fires and cook the meals. And you would be too pretty for a squaw. You must be a lady like maman, and have plenty of servants. Oh, we will ask father to bring you a husband as strong and nice and big as he is! And then he will build you a lodge here. No one can have such a splendid house as maman; he once said so."

"Come down to the palisade."

They ran down together. The inhabitants of the cottages and lodges looked out after them, they were so gay and full of frolic. The gate was open and Robert peered out. Jeanne took a step forward. She was anxious to see what was beyond.

"Don't." Gaston put out his arm to bar her. "We promised never to go outside without permission. Only a coward or a thief tells lies and breaks his word. If we could find Loudac."

Loudac had gone over to Manitou. The dame had been baking some brown bread with spice seeds in it, and she gave them all a great slice. How good it tasted! Then they were off again, and when they reached the house their mother had gone in, for the porch was hot from the sun.

Jeanne had never seen anything like it. The walls seemed set with wonderful stones and gems, some ground to facets. Long strips of embroidery in brilliant colors and curious designs parted them like frames. Here a border of wampum shells, white, pale grayish, pink and purple; there great flowers made of shells gathered from the shores of lakes and rivers. At the far end of the room were two Indian girls working on bead embroidery, another sewing rows of beautiful feathers in a border.

The boys were eager to rehearse their good time.

"If they have not tired you to death," said their mother.

Jeanne protested that she had enjoyed it quite as much.

"It is a luxury to have a new playfellow now that their father is away. They are so fond of him. Sometimes we all go."

"When will he return, Madame?"

"In a fortnight or so. Then he takes the long winter journey. That is a more dreary time, but we shut ourselves up and have blazing fires and work and read, and the time passes. There is the great hope at the end," and she gave an exquisite smile.

"But--Miladi--how can I get back to Detroit?"

"Must thou go?" endearingly. "If there are no parents--"

"But there is my poor Pani! And Detroit that I am so familiar with. Then I dare say they are all wondering."

"Loudac will tell us when he comes back."

Loudac had a budget of news. First there had been a marriage that very morning on the "Flying Star," the pretty boat of Louis Marsac, and Owaissa was the bride. There had been a feast given to the men, and the young mistress had stood before them to have her health drunk and receive the good wishes and a belt of wampum, with a lovely white doeskin cloak that was like velvet. Then they had set sail for Lake Superior.

Jeanne was very glad of the friendly twilight. She felt her face grow red and cold by turns.

"And the maiden Owaissa will be very happy," she said half in assertion, half inquiry.

"He is smart and handsome, but tricky at times, and overfond of brandy. But if a girl gets the man she wants all is well for a time, at least."

The next bit of news was that the "Return" would go to Detroit in four or five days.

"Not direct, which will be less pleasant. For she goes first over to Barre, and then crosses the lake again and stops at Presque Isle. After that it is clear sailing. A boat of hides and freight goes down, but that would not be pleasant. To-morrow I will see the captain of the 'Return.'"

"Thou wouldst not like a winter among us here?" inquired the dame. "It is not so bad, and the boys at the great house are wild over thee."

"Oh, I must go," Jeanne said, with breathless eagerness. "I shall remember all your kindness through my whole life."

"Home is home," laughed good-humored Loudac.

Very happy and light-hearted was Jeanne Angelot. There would be nothing more to fear from Louis Marsac. How had they settled it, she wondered.

Owaissa had said that she sent the child home under proper escort. Louis Marsac ground his teeth, and yet--did he care so much for the girl only to gratify a mean revenge for one thing?--the other he was not quite sure of. At all events Jeanne Angelot would always be the loser. The Detroit foundling,--and he gave a short laugh like the snarl of a dog.

Delightful as everything was, Jeanne counted the days. She was up at the great house and read to its lovely mistress, sang and danced with baby Angelique, taking hold of the tiny hands and swinging round in graceful circles, playing games with the boys and doing feats, and trying to laugh off the lamentations, which sometimes came near to tears.

"How strange," said Miladi the last evening, "that we have never heard your family name. Or--had you none?"

"Oh, yes, Madame. Some one took good care of that. It was written on a paper pinned to me; and," laughing, "pricked into my skin so I could not deny it. It is Jeanne Angelot. But there are no Angelots in Detroit."

Miladi grasped her arm so tightly that Jeanne's breath came with a flutter.

"Are there none? Are you quite sure?" There was a strained sound in her voice wont to be so musical.

"Oh, yes. Father Rameau searched."

Miladi dropped her arm.

"It grows chilly," she said, presently. "Shall we go in, or--" Somehow her voice seemed changed.

"I had better run down to the dame's. Good night, Miladi. I have been so happy. It is like a lovely dream of the summer under the trees. I am sorry I cannot be content to stay;" and she kissed the soft hand, that now was cold.

Miladi made no reply. Only she stood still longer in the cold, and murmured, "Jeanne Angelot, Jeanne Angelot." And then she recalled a laughing remark of Gaston's only that morning:--

"Jeanne has wintry blue eyes like my father's! Look, maman, the frost almost sparkles in them. And he says his came from the wonderful skies above the Arctic seas. Do you know where that is?"

No, Jeanne did not know where that was. But there were plenty of blue-eyed people in Detroit.

She ran down the steps in the light of the young crescent moon, and rubbed her arm a little where the fingers had almost made a dent.

The next day the "Return" touched at the island. It was not at all out of her way, and the captain and Loudac were warm friends. The boys clung to Jeanne and would hardly let her go.

"I wish my father could buy you for another sister," exclaimed Gaston hanging to her skirt. "If he were here he would not let you go, I am quite sure. It will take such a long while for Angelique to grow up, and then we shall be men."

Did Miladi give her a rather formal farewell? It seemed as if something chilled Jeanne.

Loudac and the dame were effusive enough to make amends. The "Return" was larger but not as jaunty as the "Flying Star," and it smelled strongly of salt fish. But Jeanne stepped joyously aboard--was she not going to La Belle Detroit? All her pulses thrilled with anticipation. Home! How sweet a word it was!


CHAPTER XVII.

A PAEAN OF GLADNESS.

Jeanne's little cabin was very plain, but the window gave a nice lookout and could be opened at will. They would cross the lake and go down to Barre on the Canada side, and that would give a different view. Was the ocean so very much larger, she wondered in her inexperienced fashion.

They passed a few boats going up. It was curiously lonely, with great reaches of stunted pines and scrubby hemlocks, then a space of rather sandy shore and wiry grasses that reared themselves stiffly. There was nothing to read. And now she wished for some sewing. She was glad enough when night came. The next morning the sky was overcast and there was a dull, threatening wind.

"If we can make Barre before it storms," said Captain Mallard. "There is a good harbor, and a fierce east wind would drive us back to the other side."

They fortunately made Barre before the storm broke in all its fierceness, but it was terrible! There was a roar over the lake as if a drove of bisons were tearing madly about. The great waves pounded and battered against the sides of the vessel as if they would break through, and the surf flew up from the point that jutted out and made the harbor. Gulls and bitterns went screaming, and Jeanne held her breath in very terror. Earth and lake and sky were one vast picture of desolation, for where the eye stopped the mind went on.

All night and all the next day the storm continued beating and bruising. But at evening the wind fell, and Jeanne gave thanks with a hearty and humble mind, and slept that night. When she woke the sun was struggling through a sky of gray, with some faint yellow and green tints that came and went as if not sure of their way. By degrees a dull red commingled with them and a sulky sun showed his face.

"It is well we were in a safe port, Mam'selle, for the storm has been terrible," explained the worthy captain. "As it is, in the darkness we have lost one man overboard, and a day must be spent in repairing. The little town is not much, but it might be a rest to go ashore."

"Yes," said Jeanne, rather absently.

"If you have a good blanket--the cold has sprung up suddenly. It is squaw winter, which comes sooner you know, like a woman's temper, and spends itself, clearing the way for smiles again."

Dame Loudac had given her a fur cap with lappets that made a hood of it. She had Owaissa's blanket, and some warm leggings. The captain helped her ashore, but it was a most uncheerful outlook. A few streets with roughly built cottages, some shops at the wharf, a packing house with the refuse of fish about, and a wide stretch of level land on which the wind had swept the trees so fiercely that most of them leaned westward.

"Oh, how can anyone live here!" cried Jeanne with a shiver, contrasting