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N truth, my Madeleine, it is a temptation, and yet I fear to leave thee and thy brothers, mignonne.”

Mother and daughter sat in the low-ceiled, heavy-beamed room of the Manor of Verehères in the year 1692. The hand of Madame de Verchères rested lightly on the dark curls of her fourteen-year-old daughter, seated on a low stool beside her: but her eyes gazed wistfully out of the window where the waters of the St. Lawrence could be seen flowing swiftly by, the clear blue of the Canadian sky above, the glory of late October painting the trees of the forest.

The seigniory of Verchères was between Quebec and Montreal, though nearer the latter place, whither, on the morrow, a boat was to go to bring back supplies against the long, cold winter. The temptation now offered to Madame de Verchères was to go in the boat for a few days’ visit with her sister.

“Fear not for us, dear little Maman. Are we not well and strong, and am I not old enough to care for my two brothers?”

“‘T is not that I doubt the discretion of thy great age, Madeleine,” said her mother, with a low laugh; “but with thy father away on his military service at Quebec, it seems not right for me, too, to leave thee, and go in the other direction.”

“‘T will do thee good, dear little Mother, and soon both thou and Father will return, and we will settle down for our long, cold winter. O-o-h! how the thought of it makes me shiver! I can hear the branches in the forest snapping with the cold, louder than the guns of the Iroquois! Would it not be fine, dear Mother, if, instead of Father’s coming home when his military duty is over, the governor should appoint him to be one of the gentlemen of his household, and we should all go to Quebee for the winter? Oh, how thou would’st shine at the balls and routs, my heautiful Mother; and how gaily would I dance with the other maidens at the governor’s court, and see almost the glories of the king at Versaille.”

“Foolish child, thy wild dreams run away with thee. Now listen, Madeleine. If I go and any illness comes or aught goes amiss, wilt thou send for our neighbor, Madame Fontaine?”

XL.