mistake. Jeannette had never looked more brilliant; probably the man
had never really scanned her features,--he was such a cold, unseeing
creature; but to-night he should have a fair opportunity, so I invited
him to join our storm-bound tea-party. He hesitated.

'Ah, do, Monsieur Rodenai,' said Jeannette, springing forward. 'I
sing for you, I dance; but, no, you not like that. Bien, I
tell your fortune then.' The young girl loved company. A party of
three, no matter who the third, was to her infinitely better than two.

The surgeon stayed.

A merry evening we had before the hearth-fire. The wind howled around
the block-house and rattled the flag-staff, and the snow pellets
sounded on the window-panes, giving that sense of warm comfort within
that comes only with the storm. Our servant had been drafted into
service for the military sociable, and I was to prepare the evening
meal myself.

'Not tea,' said Jeannette, with a wry face; 'tea,--c'est
medecine!' She had arranged her hair in fanciful braids, and now
followed me to the kitchen, enjoying the novelty like a child.
'Cafe?' she said. 'O, please, madame! I make it.'

The little shed kitchen was cold and dreary, each plank of its thin
walls rattling in the gale with a dismal creak; the wind blew the
smoke down the chimney, and finally it ended on our bringing
everything into the cosey parlor, and using the hearth fire, where
Jeannette made coffee and baked little cakes over the coals.