“Right?” demanded Hector, swelling out his chest, “Why is it not right?” He doubled up a mighty arm to show where the muscles rose upon it.  “See, I am strong!  What is one more mouth to feed—­could it even come to that for one of madame’s wealth?  Madame but jests.  Did not madame bring me that Jeanne there?  Ah, if only it were right for her to linger with us, how happy we should be!  Madame is a noblewoman, we are but poor; yet she has honored us.  Very well, then, what good to wonder about the future?  Madame is rich, that is true.  Suppose even she were poor, would it not be possible for madame to settle down here in St. Genevieve, and to teach the language of France—­far better, to teach the English to these ignorant French?”

The sturdy speech of the fresh-looking, good-hearted fellow, touched the heart of a woman so world weary.  For a time she said nothing of plans, even to herself.  It was not long before the baby of Jeanne found a place upon her knee, and Jeanne herself, though jealous, was willing to surrender her dearest rights, at least for a time.

But always the eyes of this world weary woman were lifted up to the hills.  She found herself gazing out beyond the street of St. Genevieve, toward the Ozarks, where once she had traveled—­true, against her will, but yet through scenes which she now remembered.  And always there came up in her mind a question which she found no way to ask.  It was Jeanne herself who, either by divination or by blunder, brought up the matter.

“Madame remembers that man yonder, that savage, Dunwodee?” she began, apropos of nothing.  “That savage most execrable, who was so unkind to madame and myself—­but who made love so fiercely?  I declare, Madame, I believe it was Monsieur Dunwodee set me listening to Hector! Eh, bien!”

They were sitting near the window, looking out upon the bleak prospect of the winter woods.  For the time Josephine made no comment, and Jeanne went on.

“He has at last, thank heavens, come to justice.  Is it not true that human beings find ever their deserts?”

“What do you mean, Jeanne?”

“Of the Congress of this state, where he is so long a member, he is now not a member.  He has fail’, he has been defeat’.”

“I thought he was sure of reelection so long as he chose,” commented Josephine, with feigned indifference.

“There is talk—­I do not understand these matters—­that he has change’ his coat, as one says, and gone over to the side of that man Benton.  Yet one says that Benton was always his enemy!  Me, I do not understand.  I have the baby.”

“What is that you tell me?” suddenly demanded Josephine.  “That Mr. Dunwody has changed his political beliefs—­that he has become Free Soiler?”