amiable than was usually her custom when he called. They sat
together in the main room of the house where M. Roussillon kept
his books, his curiosities of Indian manufacture collected here
and there, and his surplus firearms, swords, pistols, and knives,
ranged not unpleasingly around the walls.

Of course, along with the letter, Rene bore the news, so
interesting to himself, of the boat's tempting cargo just
discharged at the river house. Alice understood her friend's
danger--felt it in the intense enthusiasm of his voice and manner.
She had once seen the men carousing on a similar occasion when she
was but a child, and the impression then made still remained in
her memory. Instinctively she resolved to hold Rene by one means
or another away from the river house if possible. So she managed
to keep him occupied eating pie, sipping watered claret and
chatting until night came on and Madame Roussillon brought in a
lamp. Then he hurriedly snatched his cap from the floor beside him
and got up to go.

"Come and look at my handiwork," Alice quickly said; "my shelf of
pies, I mean." She led him to the pantry, where a dozen or more of
the cherry pates were ranged in order. "I made every one of them
this morning and baked them; had them all out of the oven before
the rain came up. Don't you think me a wonder of cleverness and
industry? Father Beret was polite enough to flatter me; but you--
you just eat what you want and say nothing! You are not polite,
Monsieur Rene de Ronville."

"I've been showing you what I thought of your goodies," said Rene;
"eating's better than talking, you know; so I'll just take one