A Little Girl in Old Detroit Part 15

"No more. For Pani said, 'Would you like to tell Monsieur St.

Armand?'--and I knew I should be ashamed."

A delicate flush stole over her face, going up to the tangle of rings on her forehead. What a pretty child she was!

"Monsieur St. Armand?" inquiringly.

"He was here in the summer. He has gone to Paris. And he wanted me to study. It is hard and sometimes foolishness, but then people are so much nicer who know a great many things."

"Oh," he said thoughtfully, "you live with an Indian woman up by the barracks? It is Monsieur Loisel's protegee?" and he gave her an inquiring look.

"Monsieur, I would like to know what a protegee is," with a puzzled look.

"Some one, generally a child, in whom you take an interest."

She gave a thoughtful nod, then a quick joy flamed up in her face. She was Monsieur St. Armand's protegee and she was very glad.

"You are a courageous child. I wish the boys were as brave. I hate lying;" the man said after a pause.

"O M'sieu, there are a great many cowardly people--do you not think so?"

she returned navely.

He really smiled then, and gave several emphatic nods at her youthful discrimination.

"And you think you will not run away any more?"

"No, Monsieur, because--it is wrong."

"Then we must excuse you."

"Thank you, Monsieur. I wanted you to know. Now I can feel light hearted."

She made a pretty courtesy and half turned.

"If you did not mind I should like to hear something about your Monsieur St. Armand, that is, if you are not in a hurry to get home to your dinner."

"Oh, Pani will wait."

She told her story eagerly, and he saw the wish to please this friend who had shown such an interest in her was a strong incentive. But she had a desire for knowledge beside that. So many of the children were stupid and hated study. He would watch over her and see that she progressed. This, no doubt, was the friend M. Loisel had spoken of.

"You have been very good to me, M'sieu," she said with another courtesy as she turned away.

Several days had elapsed before she saw Marie again, for Madame De Ber rather discountenanced the intimacy now. She had not much opinion of the school; the sisters and the priests could teach all that was necessary.

And Jeanne still ran about like a wild deer, while Marie was a woman.

On Sunday Antoine Beeson came to pay his respects to Madame, the mamma.

He surely could not be considered a young girl's ideal,--short, stout, red-faced from exposure to wind and water and sun, his thick brown hair rather long, though he had been clean shaven the evening before. He wore his best deerskin breeches, his gray sort of blouse with a red belt, and low, clumsy shoes with his father's buckles that had come from France, and he was duly proud of them. His gay bordered handkerchief and his necktie were new for the occasion.

Monsieur De Ber had satisfied himself that he would make a good son-in-law.

"For you see there is the house all ready, and now the servant has no head and is idle and wasteful. I cannot stand such work. I wish your daughter was two or three years older, since I cannot go back myself,"

the admirer exclaimed rather regretfully.

"Marie will be fifteen in the spring. She has been well trained, being the eldest girl, and Madame is a thrifty and excellent housekeeper. Then we all mend of youth. You will have a strong, healthy woman to care for you in your old age, instead of a decrepit body to be a burthen to you."

"That is well thought of, De Ber;" and the suitor gave a short chuckle.

There was wisdom in the idea.

Madame had sent Marie and Rose out to walk with the children. She knew she should accept the suitor, for her husband had said:--

"It is quite a piece of luck, since there are five girls to marry off.

And there's many a one who would jump at the chance. Then we shall not have to give Marie much dowry beside her setting out. It is not like young people beginning from the very hearthstone."

She met the suitor with a friendly greeting as if he were an ordinary visitor, and they talked of the impending changes in the town, the coming of the Americans, the stir in business prospects, M. Beeson was not much of a waster of words, and he came to the point presently.

"It will be hard to spare Marie," she said with an accent of regret.

"Being the eldest she has had a great deal of experience. She is like a mother to the younger ones. She has not been spending her time in fooling around idly and dancing and being out on the river, like so many girls. Rose is not worth half of Marie, and I do not see how I shall ever get the trifler trained to take Marie's place. But there need be no immediate haste."

"O Madame, we can do our courting afterward. I can take Mam'selle out to the booths Sat.u.r.day night, and we can look at the dancing. There will be all day Sunday when I am at liberty. But you see there is the house going to wrack, the servant spending my money, and the discomfort. I miss my sister so much. And I thought we would not make a long story.

Dear Madame, you must see the need."

"It is sad to be sure. But you see Marie being so young and kept rather close, not having any admirers, it takes us suddenly. And the wedding gear--"

"Mam'selle always looks tidy. But I suppose a girl wants some show at the church and the maids. Well, one doesn't get married many times in one's life. But I would like it to be by Christmas. It will be a little dull with me no doubt, and toward spring it is all hurry and drive, Antoine here and Antoine there. New boats and boats to be patched and canoes and dugouts. Then the big ships are up for repairs. I have worked moonlight nights, Madame. And Christmas is a pleasurable time."

"Yes, a pleasant time for a girl to remember. I was married at Pentecost. And there was the great procession. Dear! dear! It is not much over seventeen years ago and we have nine children."

"Pierre is a big lad, Madame, and a great help to his father. Children are a pleasure and comfort in one's old age if they do well. And thine are being well brought up. Marie is so good and steady. It is not wisdom for a man like me to choose a flighty girl."

"Marie will make a good wife," returned Madame, confidently.

And so when Marie returned it was all settled and Antoine had been invited to tea. Marie was in a desperate flutter. Of course there was nothing for her to say and she would not have had the courage to say it if there had been. But she could not help comparing him with Martin Lavosse, and some of the young men who greeted her at church. If his face were not quite so red, and his figure so clumsy! His hands, too, were broad with stubby ends to the fingers. She looked at her own; they were quite shapely, for youth has a way of throwing off the marks of toil that are ready enough to come back in later life.

"_Ma fille_," said her mother when the lover had wished them all good night, rather awkwardly, and her father had gone out to walk with him; "_ma fille_, Monsieur Beeson has done us the honor to ask for thy hand.

He is a good, steady, well-to-do man with a nice home to take thee to.

He does not carouse nor spend his money foolishly, but will always stay at home with thee, and make thee happy. Many a girl will envy thy lot.

He wants the wedding about Christmas time, so the betrothal will be soon, in a week or so. Heaven bless and prosper thee, my child! A good daughter will not make an ill wife. Thy father is very proud."

Rose and Marie looked unutterable things at each other when they went to bed. There were little pitchers in the trundle-bed, and their parents in the next room.

"If he were not so old!" whispered Rose.

"And if he could dance! But with that figure!"

"Like a buffalo!" Marie's protest forced its way up from her heart. "And I have just begun to think of things that make one happy. There will be dances at Christmastide."

"I wonder if one is sure to love one's husband," commented Rose.

"It would be wicked not to. But how does one begin? I am so afraid of his loud voice."