"Why? Who knows? She is always seen running."
"Where does she run to?"
"I don't know. Once Henry Stoner, the hunter, followed her, and they say
no one but Jack Mount can outrun him; but she ran and ran, and he after
her, till the day fell down, and he fell gasping like a foundered horse.
But she ran on."
"Oh, tally," I said; "do you believe that?"
"Why, I know it is true," she replied, ceasing her fanning to stare at
me with calm, wide eyes. "Do you doubt it?"
"How can I?" said I, laughing. "Who is this busy hag, Catrine Montour?"
"They say," said Dorothy, waving her fan thoughtfully, "that her father
was that Count Frontenac who long ago governed the Canadas, and that her
mother was a Huron woman. Many believe her to be a witch. I don't know.
Milk curdles in the pans when she is running through the forest ... they
say. Once it rained blood on our front porch."
"Those red drops fall from flocks of butterflies," I said, laughing. "I
have seen red showers in Florida."
"I should like to be sure of that," said Dorothy, musing. Then, raising
her starry eyes, she caught me laughing.
"Tease me," she smiled. "I don't care. You may even make love to me if
you choose."
"Make love to you!" I repeated, reddening.
"Why not? It amuses--and you're only a cousin.
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