you, Andree.' Now he laugh—and for two-three months before he go he no speak to me. And one day he hit me with his whip. I hate him. I hate him—ah, mon Dieu, I love him so."

Jennifer controlled her voice with difficulty.

"And you think he does not love you, Andree?" she asked.

"I not know. Perhaps—and perhaps again. But I think he hate me. And I hate him. But if again he smile at me—ah," she broke into violent sobbing; "ah, Dick, come back. I not hate you. Oh, come back from so far away."

"If he told you that he loved you——" Jennifer could not finish.

"Oh, mais vous savez, what are men. To-day to kiss, to-morrow to hit. Dick did hit when he kiss. He was not like the others. They did pray to me. Dick made me pray to him. Ah!" she shook herself free, and sat up, biting her lips. "When he come again to Grey Wolf I will kill him. He no good, anyway. Before he go he drink—he drink too much sometimes. He no good. And he make game of me. Très bien! I make much game of him. There are plenty more love Andree. Ah! I do hate him. Mon Dieu!"

Jennifer could not handle this mood any more than Dick could handle the softer mood of that other night. She shivered, going white under the tense fury of the words. Dimly she recognised that there were elements in Andree which she could never understand, even as there were elements in Dick. For the rugged rocks and the fierce winds and the deep secret woods were the forbears of their souls in the days when Andree's Indian fathers and the roystering gentlemen adventurers who were responsible for Dick had known this young land of Canada as no men of a later day could know it.

Andree stood up, knotting back her curls with swift, skilful fingers.

"It is another day I will come for Rosario," she said, and then Jennifer found her feet and her courage together.

"Come soon, Andree," she said. "And talk to me as