that had with M. Picot's mole, I could not see.

"Deliverance Dobbins oft hath racking pains," says Rebecca, with that
air of injury which became her demure dimples so well.

"Drat that Deliverance Dobbins for a low-bred mongrel mischief-maker!"
cries old Tibbie from the pantry door.

"Tibbie," I order, "hold your tongue and drop an angel in the blasphemy
box."

"'Twas good coin wasted," the old nurse vowed; but I must needs put
some curb on her royalist tongue, which was ever running a-riot in that
Puritan household.

It was an accident, in the end, that threw me across M. Picot's path.
I had gone to have him bind up a splintered wrist, and he invited me to
stay for a round of piquet. I, having only one hand, must beg Mistress
Hortense to sort the cards for me.

She sat so near that I could not see her. You may guess I lost every
game.

"Tut! tut! Hillary dear, 'tis a poor helper Ramsay gained when he
asked your hand. Pish! pish!" he added, seeing our faces crimson;
"come away," and he carried me off to the dispensary, as though his
preserved reptiles would be more interesting than Hortense.

With an indifference a trifle too marked, he brought me round to the
fur trade and wanted to know whether I would be willing to risk trading