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