The humid blockhouse and walls of the fort high above the bay began to glisten in emerging sunlight, and Jenieve determined not to be hard on Mama Lalotte that day.  If Michel came to say good-by, she would shake his hand herself.  It was not agreeable for a woman so fond of company to sit in the house with nobody but her daughter.  Mama Lalotte did not love the pine woods, or any place where she would be alone.  But Jenieve could sit and spin in solitude all day, and think of that chill silver face she had seen at Pontiac’s Lookout, and the floating away of the figure, a phosphorescent bar through the trees, and of that spoken word which had denounced the French and Indians as good for nothing.  She decided to tell the priest, even if he rebuked her.  It did not seem any stranger to Jenieve than many things which were called natural, such as the morning miracles in the eastern sky, and the growth of the boys, her dear torments.  To Jenieve’s serious eyes, trained by her grandmother, it was not as strange as the sight of Mama Lalotte, a child in maturity, always craving amusement, and easily led by any chance hand.

The priest had come to Mackinac in the schooner during the night.  He combined this parish with others more or less distant, and he opened the chapel and began his duties as soon as he arrived.  Mama Lalotte herself offered to dress the boys for confession.  She put their best clothes on them, and then she took out all her own finery.  Jenieve had no suspicion while the little figure preened and burnished itself, making up for the lack of a mirror by curves of the neck to look itself well over.  Mama Lalotte thought a great deal about what she wore.  She was pleased, and her flaxen curls danced.  She kissed Jenieve on both cheeks, as if there had been no quarrel, though unpleasant things never lingered in her memory.  And she made the boys kiss Jenieve; and while they were saddened by clothes, she also made them say they were sorry about the shoes.

By sunset, the schooner, which had sat in the straits all day, hoisted its sails and rounded the hooked point of the opposite island.  The gun at the fort was like a parting salute, and a shout was raised by coureurs-de-bois thronging the log wharf.  They trooped up to the fur warehouse, and the sound of a fiddle and the thump of soft-shod feet were soon heard; for the French were ready to celebrate any occasion with dancing.  Laughter and the high excited voices of women also came from the little ball-room, which was only the office of the Fur Company.

Here the engages felt at home.  The fiddler sat on the top of the desk, and men lounging on a row of benches around the walls sprang to their feet and began to caper at the violin’s first invitation.  Such maids and wives as were nearest the building were haled in, laughing, by their relations; and in the absence of the agents, and of that awe which goes with making your cross-mark on a paper, a quick carnival