When she laughed men who had not lost the nicety of their standards by
a sojourn on the frontier would have called her a pretty girl.
"My mother was of the French _noblesse_," she said, a dark eye upon him
to see how he would take this dignified piece of information. "She was
a descendant of the Baron de Poutrincourt, who founded Port Royal."
David was as impressed as anyone could have desired. He did not know
what the French _noblesse_ was, but by its sound he judged it to be
some high and honorable estate. He was equally ignorant of the
identity of the Baron de Poutrincourt, but the name alone was
impressive, especially as Miss Gillespie pronounced it.
"That's fine, isn't it?" he said, as being the only comment he could
think of which at once showed admiration and concealed ignorance.
The young woman seemed to find it adequate and went on with her family
history. Five years ago in Washington her father had seen his old
friend, Marcus Whitman, and since then had been restless with the
longing to move West. His health demanded the change. His labors as a
physician had exhausted him.
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