writers of books throughout all Christendom. Ah, Annette, I shall be
so lonely when you go from me!"

Stephens was all the while growing more serious, and even becoming
pathetic, which is a sign of something very delicious, and not
uncommon, when you are travelling under a bewitching moon in company
with a more bewitching maiden.

But there was so much mischief in his nature that he would rebound
at any moment from a mood of pathos or seriousness to one of levity.
"Well, Annette," and he leaned yearningly towards her, "when you
leave me to take the chances of this tumultuous time, the greatest
light that I have known will have gone out of my life."

"When I am absent from Monsieur, perhaps he never thinks of me."

"What a little ingrate it is! Yesterday morning, while you were
getting breakfast, I was upon the prairie, doing--what think you?"

How was Annette to know?

"Well, I was making verses about ma petite. I was describing her
eyes, and her ears, and all her beautiful face."

"Oh, Monsieur!" and again came the blood to her face till her cheeks
rivalled the crimson dye of the vetch at their ponies' feat. Then in
a little,

"What did Monsieur say about my ears? They are like those of all the
Metis girls; and I do not think that they are as pretty as Julie's."