“But you are the worst one,” said Pierre eagerly.  “Odile thinks if you let her alone we may get her.”

“But I can’t let her alone.  I see the force of your claims, but human nature is so perverse, Pierre, that I want her worse than ever.”

Pierre dug with his heel in the grass.  His determined countenance delighted the rival.

“Monsieur, if you do get her, you have our whole family to beat.”

“Yes, I see what odds there are against me,” owned Rice.

“We are going to marry her if we can—­and my father is willing.  He is nearly always willing to please us.”

“This is fair and open,” pronounced Rice, “and the way for gentlemen to treat each other.  You have done the right thing in coming to talk this matter over with me.”

“I’m not sure of that, m’sieur.”

“I am, for there is nothing better than fair and open rivalry.  And after all, nobody can settle this but Mademoiselle Saucier herself.  She may not be willing to take any of us.  But, whatever the result, shake hands, Pierre.”

The boy transferred his riding-whip, and met the lawyer’s palm with a hearty grasp.  They shook hands, laughing, and Pierre felt surprised to find how well he liked Rice Jones.

As the wide and capacious Kaskaskia houses were but a single story high, Maria’s bedroom was almost in the garden.  Sweet-brier stretched above the foundation and climbed her window; and there were rank flowers, such as marigolds and peppery bouncing-betties, which sent her pungent odors.  Sometimes she could see her stepmother walking the graveled paths between the vegetable beds, or her father and Rice strolling back and forth together of an evening.  Each one was certain to bring her something,—­a long-stemmed pink, or phlox in a bunch, like a handful of honeycomb.  The gardener pulled out dead vines and stalks and burned them behind a screen of bushes, the thin blue smoke trailing low.

Her father would leave his office to sit beside her, holding the hand which grew thinner every day.  He had looked forward to his daughter’s coming as a blossoming-time in his life.  Maria had not left her bed since the night of her hemorrhage.  A mere fortnight in the Territory seemed to have wasted half her little body.

When you have strained to bear your burden and keep up with the world’s march, lightly commiserated by the strong, there is great peace in finally giving up and lying down by the roadside.  The hour often fiercely wished for, and as often repelled with awe, is here.  The visible is about to become invisible.  It is your turn to pass into the unknown.  You have seen other faces stiffen, and other people carried out and forgotten.  Your face is now going to chill the touch.  You are going to be carried out.  But, most wonderful of all, you who have been so keenly alive are glad to creep close to Death and lay your head in his lap.

There are natures to whom suffering is degradation.  Sympathy would burn them like caustic.  They are dumb on the side which seeks promiscuous fellowship.  They love one person, and live or die by that love.