This unexpected question took me by surprise; yet I answered unhesitatingly, “Yes.”

“I was educated at the Ursuline Convent in Montreal.  It was my mother’s dearest wish that I should take the vows of that order, but I fear I am far too frivolous for so serious a life.  I love happy things too well, and the beautiful outside world of men and women.  I ran away from the Sisters, and then my father and I voyaged to this country, where we might lead a freer life together.”

“Here?” and I glanced questioningly about me into those darkening shadows which were momentarily hemming us in more closely.

“To Fort Dearborn,” she explained.  “We came by boat through the straits at the north; and ’twas a trip to remember.  My father brought out goods from Canada, and traded with the Indians.  I have been in their villages.  Once I was a week alone with a tribe of Sacs near Green Bay, and they called me the White Queen.  I have met many famous warriors of the Wyandots and Pottawattomies, and have seen them dance at their council.  Once I journeyed as far west as the Great River, across leagues and leagues of prairie,” and her face lighted up at the remembrance.  “Father said he thought I must be the first white woman who had ever travelled so far inland.  We have been at Dearborn for nearly a year.”

She rose to her feet, and swept her eyes, with some anxiety, around upon dim mounds of sand that appeared more fantastic than ever in the darkness.

“Had we not better be going?” she asked.  “There is surely a storm gathering yonder.”

“Yes,” I answered, for I had not been indifferent to the clouds steadily banking up in the north.  “Yet you have not told me your name, and I should be most glad to know it.”

The girl courtesied mockingly, as though half inclined to laugh at my insistence.

“What is a name?” she exclaimed. “’Tis not that for which we greatly care.  Now I—­I am simply Mademoiselle Antoinette,—­at least, so most of those I care for call me; and from now on, the very good friend of Master John Wayland.”

I was deeply conscious that I blushed at her words and manner; but with it there arose an instant query in my mind:  could this be the fair Toinette whom De Croix sought so ardently?  I greatly feared it; yet I resolved I would not mention his name to her.

“It has a decided French sound,” I stammered.

She laughed at my tone, with a quick shrug of her shoulders.

“And pray, why not, Monsieur?  Have you such a prejudice against that great people that you need speak of them with so glum a voice?  Ah, but if I must, then I shall endeavor to teach you a higher regard for us.”

“That may not prove so hard a task,” I hastened to assure her; “though I was surprised,—­you speak English with so pure an accent that I had not dreamed you other than of my own race.”

“My father was of English blood,” she answered more gravely; “but I fear you will find me quite of my mother’s people, if ever we come to know each other well.  But hark! that was surely thunder!  We have loitered too long; the storm is about to break.”