"He says he is old, that he has dwelt here many years-"

"That is true," the girl mused. "I was born here in Saint Philippe; so were you, Jacques."

"He says," continued the young man, "that he could not dispose of his mill and that he would not leave it."

"His mill- his mill! no!" exclaimed Marianne, rising abruptly, "it is not that. Would you know why my father will never leave Saint Philippe?" approaching as she said this a rear window whose shutters were partly closed, and throwing them wide open. "Come here, Jacques. That is the reason," pointing with her strong shapely arm to where a wooden cross marked the presence of a grave out under the wide-spreading branches of a maple.

They both stood for a while silently gazing across the grassy slope that reflected the last flickering gleams of the setting sun. Then Jacques muttered as if in answer to some unspoken thought:

"Yes, he loved her very dearly. Surely the better part of himself went with her. And you, Marianne?" he questioned gently.

"I, Jacques? Oh, it is only the old whose memories dwell in graves," she replied a little wearily. "My life belongs to my father. I have but to follow his will, whatever that may be."

Then Marianne left Jacques standing by the open window, and went into the adjoining room to divest herself of her hunting raiment. When she returned she was dressed in the garments that had been her mother's once- a short camlet skirt of sober hue; a green laced bodice whose scantiness was redeemed by a muslin kerchief laid in deep folds across the bosom; and upon her head was the white cap of the French workingwoman.

Jacques had lighted the fire for her in the big stone chimney, and gone silently away.

It was indeed true. During that autumn of 1765, a handful of English, under command of Captain Sterling of the Highlanders, crossed the Alleghanies and were coming to take peaceful possession of their hitherto inaccessible lands in the Illinois.

To none did this seem a more hated intrusion than to the people of Saint Philippe. After the excited meeting at Sans-Chagrin's tavern, all went to work with feverish haste to abandon the village which had been the only home that many of them had ever known. Men, women, and children seemed suddenly possessed with demoniac strength to demolish. Doors, windows, and flooring; everything that could serve in building up the new was rifled from the old. For days there was gathering together and hauling away in rough carts constructed for the sole purpose. Cattle were called from the pasture lands and driven in herds to the northward.

When the last of these rebellious spirits was gone, Saint Philippe stood like the skeleton of its former self; and Picote Laronce with his daughter found themselves alone amid the desolate hearthstones.

"It will be a dreary life, my child, for you," said the old man, gathering Marianne in a close embrace.

"It will not be dreary," she assured him, disengaging herself to look into his eyes. "I shall have much work to do. We shall forget- try to forget- that the English are at our door. And some time when we are rich in peltries, we will go to visit our friends in that great town that they talk so much about. Do not ever think that I am sad, father, because we are alone."

But the silence was very desolate. So was the sight of those abandoned homes, where smiling faces no longer looked from windows, and where the music of children's laughter was heard no more.

Marianne worked and hunted and grew strong and stronger. The old man was more and more like a child to her. When she was not with him, he would sit for hours upon a rude seat under the maple tree, with a placid look of content in his old, dim eyes.

One day when Captain Vaudry rode up from Fort Chartres, fine as could be in his gay uniform of a French officer, he found Picote and Marianne sitting in the solitude hand in hand. He had heard how they had remained alone in Saint Philippe, and he had come to know if it was true, and to persuade them, if he could, to return with him to France- to La Rochelle, where Picote had formerly lived. But he urged in vain. Picote knew no home save that in which his wife had dwelt with him, and no resting place on earth except where she lay. And Marianne said always the same thing- that her father's will was hers.

But when she came in from her hunt one evening and found him stretched in the eternal sleep out under the maple, at once she felt that she was alone, with no will to obey in the world but her own. Then her heart was as strong as oak and her nerves were like iron. Lovingly she carried him into the house. And when she had wept because he was dead, she lit two blessed candles and placed them at his head and she watched with him all through the still night.

At the break of day she barred the doors and windows, and mounting her fleet Indian pony, away she galloped to the fort, five miles below, to seek the aid she needed.

Captain Vaudry, and others as well, made all haste to Saint Philippe when they learned this sad thing that had befallen Marianne. Word was sent to the good cure of Kaskaskia, and he came too, with prayer and benediction. Jacques was in Kaskaskia when the tidings of Picote's death reached there, and with all the speed at his command he hurried to Marianne to help her in her need.

So Marianne was not alone. Good and staunch friends were about her. When Picote- had been laid to rest- under the maple- and the last blessing had been spoken, the good cure turned to Marianne and said:

"My daughter, you will return with me to Kaskaskia. Your father had many friends in that village, and there is not a door but will open to receive you. It would be unseemly, now he is gone, to live alone in Saint Philippe."

"I thank you, my father," she answered, "but I must pass this night alone, and in thought. If I decide to go to my good friend in Kaskaskia, I shall ride into town early, upon my pony."

Jacques, too, spoke to her, with gentle persuasion: "You know, Marianne, what I want to say, and what my heart is full of. It is not I alone but my father and mother as well to whom you are dear, and who long to have you with us- one of us. Over there in the new village of Saint Louis a new life has begun for all of us. Let me beg that you will not refuse to share it till you have at least tried."

She held up her hand in token than she had heard enough and turned resolutely from him. "Leave me, my friend," she said, "leave me alone. Follow the cure, there where he goes. If I so determine, you shall hear from me, if not, then think no longer of Marianne."

So another silent night fell upon Saint Philippe, with Marianne alone in her home. Not even the dead with her now. She did not know that under the shelter of a neighboring porch Captain Vaudry lay like a sentinel wrapped in his mantle.

Near the outer road, but within the inclosure of Marianne's home, was "the great tree of Saint Philippe" under which a rude table and benches stood. Here Picote and his daughter had often taken their humble meals, shared with any passer-by that chose to join them.

Seated there in the early morning was Captain Vaudry when Marianne stepped from her door, in her jerkin of buckskin and her gun across her shoulder.

"What are you doing here, Captain Vaudry?" she asked with startled displeasure when she saw him there.