"Ah, Monsieur, where were your eyes? I have worn it in my hair all
day. It is there now."

"Oh, I see. I am concerned with your head,--not with your heart. Is
that it, ma petite bright eye? You know our white girls wear the
flowers we give them under their throats--upon their bosom. This they
do as a sign that the donor occupies a place in their heart."

He did not perceive in the dusky light that he was covering her with
confusion. Upon no point was this maiden so sensitive, as the
revelation that a habit or act of hers differed from that of the
civilized girl. Her dear heart was almost bursting with shame, and
this thought was running through her mind.

"What a savage I must seem in his eyes." Her own outspoken words
seemed to burn through her body. "But how could I know where to wear
my rose? I have read in English books that gentle ladies wear them
there." And these lines of Tennyson [Footnote: I must say here for
the benefit of the drivelling, cantankerous critic, with a squint in
his eye, who never looks for anything good in a piece of writing, but
is always in the search for a flaw, that I send passages from
Tennyson floating through Annette's brain with good justification.
She had received a very fair education at a convent in Red River. She
could speak and write both French and English with tolerable
accuracy; and she could with her tawny little fingers, produce a true
sketch of a prairie tree-clump, upon a sheet of cartridge paper, or a
piece of birch rind. I am constrained to make this explanation
because the passage appeared in another book of mine and evoked
censure from one or two dismal wiseacres.--E.C.] came running through
her head: