"Bon jour," she nodded, unsmiling, as a slim youth swung jauntily up
the hard-beaten way between the cabins.

"Eh!" said Marie, alert, "and who is that lord-high-mighty, with his
red cheeks and his airs, Maren? You know, as it is always, every man in
the post already. It is not so with the women, I'll wager. For
instance, who lives in the tiny house there by the south bastion?"

"I know not," answered Maren, as though she humoured a child, and
taking the last question first; "as for the youth, 'tis young Marc
Dupre, and one of a sturdy nature. I like his spirit, though all I know
of it is what sparkles from his roguish eyes. A fighter,--one to dare
for love of chance."

Marie looked quickly up, ever ready to pounce on the first gleam of
aught that might ripen into a love interest, but she saw Maren's eyes,
cool and shining, watching the swaggering figure with a look that
measured its slim strength, its suggestion of reserve, its gay joy of
life, and naught else.

"A pretty fellow," she said, with a touch of disappointment.

Each and every man went by Maren just so,--eliciting only that interest
which had to do apart from the personal.

But the black eyes of Marc Dupre had softened a bit under their daring
as he approached the factory.

"Holy Mother!" he whispered to himself; "what a woman! No maid, but a
WOMAN--for whose word one would fillip the face of Satan. She is