Four nights later Pepin Quesnelle and his mother were having their supper in the large common sitting-room, which also did duty as kitchen and workshop.  The tidy, silver-haired old dame had set out a place for Pepin at the well-scrubbed table, but the petit maitre, much to her regret, would not sit down at it as was his wont He insisted on having his supper placed on the long, low bench, covered with tools and harness, at which he was working.  He had a Government job on hand, and knew that if he sat down to the table in state, there would be much good time wasted in useless formality.  His mother therefore brought some bread and a large steaming plate of some kind of stew, and placed them within reach of his long arms.

“Pepin,” she said, with a hint of fond remonstrance, “it is not like you to eat so.  If any one should happen to come and catch you, my sweet one, eating like a common Indian, what would they think?  Take care, apple of my eye, it is ver’ hot!”

She hastily put down the steaming bowl, from which a savoury steam ascended, and Antoine the bear, who was sitting on his haunches in evident meditation behind the bench, deliberately looked in another direction.  What mattered the master’s dinner to a bear of his high-class principles!

“Thank you, my mother,” said Pepin, without lifting his eyes, and sewing away with both hands as if for dear life.  “What you say is true, ver’ true, but the General he will want this harness, and the troops go to-morrow to catch Poundmaker.  And, after all, what matters it where I sit—­am I not Pepin Quesnelle?”

Antoine, still looking vacantly in another direction, moved meditatively nearer the steaming dish.  Why had they not given him his supper?  He had been out for quite a long walk that day, his appetite was excellent.

“Mother,” said Pepin again, “that young female Douglas, who was here some time ago, I wonder where she may be now?  Since then I have been many times think that, after all, she was, what the soldier-officers call it, not half-bad.”

“Ah, Pepin!” and the old lady sighed, “she was a sweet child, and some day might even have done as wife for you.  But you are so particular, my son.  Of course, I do not mean to say she was good enough for you, but at least she was more better than those other women who would try and steal you from me. Mon Dieu, how they do conspire!”

“So, that is so,” commented Pepin resignedly, but at the same time not without a hint of satisfaction in his voice; “they will do it, you know, mother.  Bah! if the shameless females only knew how Pepin Quesnelle sees through their little ways, how they would be confounded—­astonished, and go hide themselves for the shame of it!  But this girl, that is the thing, she was nice girl, I think, and if perhaps she had the airs of a grande dame and would expect much—­well, after all, there was myself to set against that Eh?  What?  Don’t you think that is so, my mother?”