Every tie was broken for poor Agathe but that which bound her to her infant.  She never returned to her father’s lodge, for she felt that, being deserted, she was dishonored.  Her sole ambition seemed to be to bring up her child like those of the whites.  She attired it in the costume of the French children, with a dress of bright calico, and a cap of the same, trimmed with narrow black lace.  It was a fine child, and the only time I ever saw a smile cross her face was when it was commended and caressed by some member of our family.

Even this, her only source of happiness, poor Agathe was called upon to resign.  During our absence at Green Bay, while the Sauks were in the neighborhood, the child was taken violently ill.  The house at Paquette’s, which was the mother’s home, was thronged with Indians, and of course there was much noise and disturbance.  My husband had a place prepared for her under our roof, where she could be more quiet, and receive the attendance of the post physician.  It was all in vain—­nothing could save the little creature’s life.  The bitter agony of the mother, as she hung over the only treasure she possessed on earth, was described to me as truly heart-rending.  When compelled to part with it, it seemed almost more than nature could bear.  There were friends, not of her own nation or color, who strove to comfort her.  Did the father ever send a thought or an inquiry after the fate of his child, or of the young being whose life he had rendered dark and desolate?  We will hope that he did—­that he repented and asked pardon from above for the evil he had wrought.

Agathe had been baptized by M. Mazzuchelli.  Perhaps she may have acquired some religious knowledge which could bring her consolation in her sorrows, and compensate her for the hopes and joys so early blasted.

She came, some months after the death of her child, in company with several of the half-breed women of the neighborhood, to pay me a visit of respect and congratulation on the advent of the young Shaw-nee-aw-kee. When she looked at her “little brother,” as he was called, and took his soft, tiny hand within her own, the tears stood in her eyes, and she spoke some little words of tenderness, which showed that her heart was full.  I could scarcely refrain from mingling my tears with hers, as I thought on all the sorrow and desolation that one man’s selfishness had occasioned.

* * * * *

Early in February, 1833, my husband and Lieutenant Hunter, in company with one or two others, set off on a journey to Chicago.  That place had become so much of a town (it contained perhaps fifty inhabitants) that it was necessary for the proprietors of “Kinzie’s Addition” to lay out lots and open streets through their property.  All this was accomplished during the visit in question.