He took her hands and said softly:
"Come, Marie."
"If I go with thee now, Antoine, when wilt thou bring me back to my mother?"
"When thou hast made a good man of me, Marie, and that will not be long, I promise thee. For how could I be wicked or reckless when I have thee always with me? Come, Marie, thy mother is good, she does not need thee, while I—well, I have told thee often that without thee I cannot and will not be good. Thy mother will perhaps weep——"
"Oh, Antoine, I know how she will weep for me! I know how lonely the long summer days and the dreary winter days will be for her without me, and poor baby Jacques, he will weep for me too. Oh, Antoine!" and she clung to him as the tears overflowed her face.
He pressed her bright head close to his breast, only answering for a time with his kisses. Then he said:
"My own little one, I know how thou lovest thy mother, and how much she is to thee, but cannot I be more? And, Marie, thy mother does not think so badly of me as all the others do. When she learns that thou art with me, she will say, 'Poor Antoine, he has now some one to live for, some one to help him escape from hell.' Marie, if I go away alone," he continued, "I will return to men like myself, even worse, and then I will have no strength, while if thou art with me—with all thy purity and goodness—thou wilt keep evil spirits away, thou wilt in time teach me how to become good, and draw me back to 'proper ways.' And then we will return and live as thy father and mother do."
"Ah, if I could know all that would come true. But, Antoine, how will my mother know what has become of me?"
"I will let her know. Not far from here at an Indian village is good Pere Geauteau, and, after he has married us, I will pray him to write and tell them all."
"And when shall we be married, Antoine?"
"As soon as our feet can carry us to the priest. Come, come."
"But it will soon be dark in the forest," said the girl, drawing back.
"Never fear the darkness, I know every foot of the ground between here and the great lakes. Come, my darling, and when thou art weary I will carry thee."
"And, Antoine, thou wilt love me well enough to keep all thy vows?"
"I swear by everything thou believest holy that I will," and, holding her hand tightly, he hurried her away.
The last dampness had dried from the white floor, little Jacques had laid down in a sunny spot and fallen asleep, the mother was commencing supper and wondering why Marie did not come. When the table was set, and still no Marie came, she walked anxiously to the door and looked across the meadow. The sun was sinking, and already lay in a softly rounded hollow of the mountain range, sending his last level rays across field and river. All was tranquil, warm, and fair, and yet over her heart crept such a chill as had never rested there before. She gazed steadily toward the forest, longing for the first glimpse of Marie when she would emerge with the cows. As she stood, the sun dropped behind the mountains, and the shadows deepened around the wood, and stretched out across the meadow. Where could Marie be? She lifted the sleeping baby from the floor, and laid him on the bed, mended the fire, and then hurried out along the path which led to the pasture. It was useless to chide herself for her fears. Marie had never idled nor tarried when she had been bidden to hurry. Something must have happened. Perhaps one of the usually gentle cows had become unruly and rushed upon her, or perhaps she had sat down to rest in the forest,—she was tired, poor child,—and had fallen asleep. At the edge of the forest she paused and looked into its black depth for a sight of the familiar dress. She tried to lift up her voice and call, but there was such an oppression upon her that, as in a horrible dream, the sound was scarcely more than a whisper. She stood a moment irresolute, listening to the strange sounds that came to her. A bird darted past her, and made her heart leap until the blood thundered in her ears. Then she dashed forward, looking to the right and left, but breathing not a word. She had still one hope, still one fear, that when she reached the opening she would find the missing one. The way was short; she was soon there. As she stumbled over the last fallen branch and reached the clearing, the soft lowing of the patient cows smote upon her heart with the dull, incomprehensible pain, that the unreasoning tranquillity of a dumb brute always has when every pulse is bounding and the brain is whirling with excitement.
Marie had not been there. She hurriedly
