He was certain she was not interested in him, or in his
exploits.

"Can she have a lover?" he asked himself, a keen arrow
of jealousy entering at his heart, and vibrating through
all his veins. "No, this cannot be. She said in her
musings on the prairie that she had nobody who would sing
a sad song if she were to go to the South. Stop! She
may love, and not find her passion requited. I shall
stay about here some days, upon some pretext, and I shall
see what is in the wind."

The next morning, when breakfast was ended, he perceived
Marie rush to the window, and then hastily, and with a
dainty coyness withdraw her head from the pane.
Simultaneously he heard a sprightly tune whistled, as if
by some glad, young heart that knew no care. Looking now,
he saw a tall, well-formed young whiteman, a gun on his
back, and a dog at his heels, walking along the little
meadow-path toward the cottage.

"This is the lover," he muttered; "curses upon him." From
that moment he hated with all the bitterness of his nature
the man now striding carelessly up toward the cottage
door.

"Bon jour, mademoiselle et messieurs" the newcomer said
in cheery tones, as he entered, making a low bow.

"Bon jour, Monsieur Scott," was the reply. Louis Riel,