“Give you good-e’en, Ramsay,” salutes M. Picot, a small, thin man with pointed beard, eyebrows of a fierce curlicue, and an expression under half-shut lids like cat’s eyes in the dark.  “Give you good-e’en!  Can you guess who this is?”

As if any one could forget Hortense!  But I did not say so.  Instead, I begged leave to welcome her back by saluting the tips of her gloved fingers.  She asked me if I minded that drowning of Ben long ago.  Then she wanted to know of Jack.

“I hear you are fur trading, Ramsay?” remarks M. Picot with the inflection of a question.

I told him somewhat of the trade, and he broke out in almost the same words as Ben Gillam.  ’Twas the life for a gentleman of spirit.  Why didn’t I join the beaver trade of Hudson Bay?  And did I know of any secret league between Captain Zachariah Gillam and Mr. Stocking to trade without commission?

“Ah, Hillary,” he sighed, “had we been beaver trading like Radisson instead of pounding pestles, we might have had little Hortense restored.”

“Restored!” thought I. And M. Picot must have seen my surprise, for he drew back to his shell like a pricked snail.  Observing that the wind was chill, he bade me an icy good-night.

I had no desire to pry into M. Picot’s secrets, but I could not help knowing that he had unbended to me because he was interested in the fur trade.  From that ’twas but a step to the guess that he had come to New England to amass wealth to restore Mistress Hortense.  Restore her to what?  There I pulled up sharp.  ’Twas none of my affair; and yet, in spite of resolves, it daily became more of my affair.  Do what I would, spending part of every day with Rebecca, that image of lustrous eyes under the white beaver, the plume nodding above the curls, the slender figure outlined against the gold-shot mantilla, became a haunting memory.  Countless times I blotted out that mental picture with a sweep of common sense.  “She was a pert miss, with her head full of French nonsense and a nose held too high in air.”  Then a memory of the eyes under the beaver, and fancy was at it again spinning cobwebs in moonshine.

M. Picot kept more aloof than formerly, and was as heartily hated for it as the little minds of a little place ever hate those apart.

Occasionally, in the forest far back from the settlement, I caught a flying glimpse of Lincoln green; and Hortense went through the woods, hard as her Irish hunter could gallop, followed by the blackamoor, churning up and down on a blowing nag.  Once I had the good luck to restore a dropped gauntlet before the blackamoor could come.  With eyes alight she threw me a flashing thanks and was off, a sunbeam through the forest shades; and something was thumping under a velvet waistcoat faster than the greyhound’s pace.  A moment later, back came the hound in springy stretches, with the riders at full gallop.

Her whip fell, but this time she did not turn.