"Mr. Hosmer, perhaps I ought to have said something before this, to you—about what you've done."

"Oh, yes, congratulated me—complimented me," he replied with a pretense at a laugh.

"Well, the latter, perhaps. I think we all like to have our good and right actions recognized for their worth."

He flushed, looked at her with a smile, then laughed out-right—this time it was no pretense.

"So I've been a good boy; have done as my mistress bade me and now I'm to receive a condescending little pat on the head—and of course must say thank you. Do you know, Mrs. Lafirme—and I don't see why a woman like you oughtn't to know it—it's one of those things to drive a man mad, the sweet complaisance with which women accept situations, or inflict situations that it takes the utmost of a man's strength to endure."

"Well, Mr. Hosmer," said Therese plainly discomposed, "you must concede you decided it was the right thing to do."

"I didn't do it because I thought it was right, but because you thought it was right. But that makes no difference."

"Then remember your wife is going to do the right thing herself—she admitted as much to me."

"Don't you fool yourself, as Melicent says, about what Mrs. Hosmer means to do. I take no account of it. But you take it so easily; so as a matter of course. That's what exasperates me. That you, you, you, shouldn't have a suspicion of the torture of it; the loathsomeness of it. But how could you—how could any woman understand it? Oh forgive me, Therese—I wouldn't want you to. There's no brute so brutal as a man," he cried, seeing the pain in her face and knowing he had caused it. "But you know you promised to help me—oh I'm talking like an idiot."

"And I do," returned Therese, "that is, I want to, I mean to."

"Then don't tell me again that I have done right. Only look at me sometimes a little differently than you do at Hiram or the gate post. Let me once in a while see a look in your face that tells me that you understand—if it's only a little bit."

Therese thought it best to interrupt the situation; so, pale and silently she prepared to mount her horse. He came to her assistance of course, and when she was seated she drew off her loose riding glove and held out her hand to him. He pressed it gratefully, then touched it with his lips; then turned it and kissed the half open palm.

She did not leave him this time, but rode at his side in silence with a frown and little line of thought between her blue eyes.

As they were nearing the store she said diffidently: "Mr. Hosmer, I wonder if it wouldn't be best for you to put the mill in some one else's charge—and go away from Place-du-Bois."

"I believe you always speak with a purpose, Mrs. Lafirme: you have somebody's ultimate good in view, when you say that. Is it your own, or mine or whose is it?"

"Oh! not mine."

"I will leave Place-du-Bois, certainly, if you wish it."

As she looked at him she was forced to admit that she had never seen him look as he did now. His face, usually serious, had a whole unwritten tragedy in it. And she felt altogether sore and puzzled and exasperated over man's problematic nature.

"I don't think it should be left entirely to me to say. Doesn't your own reason suggest a proper course in the matter?"

"My reason is utterly unable to determine anything in which you are concerned. Mrs. Lafirme," he said checking his horse and laying a restraining hand on her bridle, "let me speak to you one moment. I know you are a woman to whom one may speak the truth. Of course, you remember that you prevailed upon me to go back to my wife. To you it seemed the right thing—to me it seemed certainly hard—but no more nor less than taking up the old unhappy routine of life, where I had left it when I quitted her. I reasoned much like a stupid child who thinks the colors in his kaleidoscope may fall twice into the same design. In place of the old, I found an entirely new situation—horrid, sickening, requiring such a strain upon my energies to live through it, that I believe it's an absurdity to waste so much moral force for so poor an aim—there would be more dignity in putting an end to my life. It doesn't make it any the more bearable to feel that the cause of this unlooked for change lies within myself—my altered feelings. But it seems to me that I have the right to ask you not to take yourself out of my life; your moral support; your bodily atmosphere. I hope not to give way to the weakness of speaking of these things again: but before you leave me, tell me, do you understand a little better why I need you?"

"Yes, I understand now; and I thank you for talking so openly to me. Don't go away from Place-du-Bois: it would make me very wretched."

She said no more and he was glad of it, for her last words held almost the force of action for him; as though she had let him feel for an instant her heart beat against his own with an echoing pain.

Their ways now diverged. She went in the direction of the house and he to the store where he found Gregoire, whom he sent for his wife.



VI

One Night.

"Gregoire was right: do you know those nasty creatures have gone and left every speck of the supper dishes unwashed? I've got half a mind to give them both warning to-morrow morning."

Fanny had come in from the kitchen to the sitting-room, and the above homily was addressed to her husband who stood lighting his cigar. He had lately taken to smoking.

"You'd better do nothing of the kind; you wouldn't find it easy to replace them. Put up a little with their vagaries: this sort of thing only happens once a year."

"How do you know it won't be something else just as ridiculous to-morrow? And that idiot of a Minervy; what do you suppose she told me when I insisted on her staying to wash up things? She says, last whatever you call it, her husband wanted to act hard-headed and staid out after dark, and when he was crossing the bayou, the spirits jerked him off his horse and dragged him up and down in the water, till he was nearly drowned. I don't see what you're laughing at; I guess you'd like to make out that they're in the right."

Hosmer was perfectly aware that Fanny had had a drink, and he rightly guessed that Morico had given it to her. But he was at a loss to account for the increasing symptoms of intoxication that she showed. He tried to persuade her to go to bed; but his efforts to that end remained unheeded, till she had eased her mind of an accumulation of grievances, mostly fancied. He had much difficulty in preventing her from going over to give Melicent a piece of her mind about her lofty airs and arrogance in thinking herself better than other people. And she was very eager to tell Therese that she meant to do as she liked, and would stand no poking of noses in her business. It was a good while before she fell into a heavy sleep, after shedding a few maudlin tears over the conviction that he intended to leave her again, and clinging to his neck with beseeching enquiry whether he loved her.

He went out on the veranda feeling much as if he had been wrestling with a strong adversary who had mastered him, and whom he was glad to be freed of, even at the cost of coming inglorious from the conflict. The night was so dark, so hushed, that if ever the dead had wished to step from their graves and take a stroll above ground, they could not have found a more fitting hour. Hosmer walked very long in the soothing quiet. He would have liked to walk the night through. The last three hours had been like an acute physical pain, that was over for the moment, and that being over, left his mind free to return to the delicious consciousness, that he had needed to be reminded of, that Therese loved him after all. When his measured tread upon the veranda finally ceased to mark the passing hours, a quiet that was almost pulseless fell upon the plantation. Place-du-Bois slept. Perhaps the only night in the year that some or other of the negroes did not lurk in fence corners, or make exchange of nocturnal visits.

But out in the hills there was no such unearthly stillness reigning. Those restless wood-dwellers, that never sleep, were sending startling gruesome calls to each other. Bats were flapping and whirling and darting hither and thither; the gliding serpent making quick rustle amid the dry, crisp leaves, and over all sounded the murmur of the great pine trees, telling their mystic secrets to the night.

A human creature was there too, feeling a close fellowship with these spirits of night and darkness; with no more fear in his heart than the unheeded serpent crossing his path. Every inch of the ground he knew. He wanted no daylight to guide him. Had his eyes been blinded he would no doubt have bent his body close to earth and scented his way along like the human hound that he was. Over his shoulder hung the polished rifle that sent dull and sudden gleamings into the dark. A large tin pail swung from his hand. He was very careful of this pail—or its contents, for he feared to lose a drop. And when he accidentally struck an intervening tree and spilled some upon the ground, he muttered a curse against his own awkwardness.

Twice since leaving his cabin up in the clearing, he had turned to drive back his yellow skulking dog that followed him. Each time the brute had fled in abject terror, only to come creeping again into his master's footsteps, when he thought himself forgotten. Here was a companion whom neither Jocint nor his mission required. Exasperated, he seated himself on a fallen tree and whistled softly. The dog, who had been holding back, dashed to his side, trembling with eagerness, and striving to twist his head around to lick the hand that patted him. Jocint's other hand glided quickly into his pocket, from which he drew forth a coil of thin rope that he flung deftly over the animal's head, drawing it close and tight about the homely, shaggy throat. So quickly was the action done, that no sound was uttered, and Jocint continued his way untroubled by his old and faithful friend, whom he left hanging to the limb of a tree.

He was following the same path that he traversed daily to and from the mill, and which soon brought him out into the level with its soft tufted grass and clumps of squat thorn trees. There was no longer the protecting wood to screen him; but of such there was no need, for the darkness hung about him like the magic mantle of story. Nearing the mill he grew cautious, creeping along with the tread of a stealthy beast, and halting at intervals to listen for sounds that he wished not to hear. He knew there was no one on guard tonight. A movement in the bushes near by, made him fall quick and sprawling to earth. It was only Gregoire's horse munching the soft grass. Jocint drew near and laid his hand on the horse's back. It was hot and reeking with sweat. Here was a fact to make him more wary. Horses were not found in such condition from quietly grazing of a cool autumn night. He seated himself upon the ground, with his hands clasped about his knees, all doubled up in a little heap, and waited there with the patience of the savage, letting an hour go by, whilst he made no movement.

The hour past, he stole towards the mill, and began his work of sprinkling the contents of his pail here and there along the dry timbers at well calculated distances, with care that no drop should be lost. Then, he drew together a great heap of crisp shavings and slathers, plentifully besprinkling it with what remained in the can. When he had struck a match against his rough trousers and placed it carefully in the midst of this small pyramid, he found that he had done his work but too surely. The quick flame sprang into life, seizing at once all it could reach. Leaping over intervals; effacing the darkness that had shrouded him; seeming to mock him as a fool and point him out as a target for heaven and earth to hurl destruction at if they would. Where should he hide himself? He only thought now of how he might have done the deed differently, and with safety to himself. He stood with great beams and loose planks surrounding him; quaking with a premonition of evil. He wanted to fly in one direction; then thought it best to follow the opposite; but a force outside of himself seemed to hold him fast to one spot. When turning suddenly about, he knew it was too late, he felt that all was lost, for there was Gregoire, not twenty paces away—covering him with the muzzle of a pistol and—cursed luck—his own rifle along with the empty pail in the raging fire.

Therese was passing a restless night. She had lain long awake, dwelling on the insistent thoughts that the day's happenings had given rise to. The sleep which finally came to her was troubled by dreams—demoniac—grotesque. Hosmer was in a danger from which she was striving with physical effort to rescue him, and when she dragged him painfully from the peril that menaced him, she turned to see that it was Fanny whom she had saved—laughing at her derisively, and Hosmer had been left to perish. The dream was agonizing; like an appalling nightmare. She awoke in a fever of distress, and raised herself in bed to shake off the unnatural impression which such a dream can leave. The curtains were drawn aside from the window that faced her bed, and looking out she saw a long tongue of flame, reaching far up into the sky—away over the tree tops and the whole Southern horizon a glow. She knew at once that the mill was burning, and it was the affair of a moment with her to spring from her bed and don slippers and wrapper. She knocked on Melicent's door to acquaint her with the startling news; then hurried out into the back yard and rang the plantation bell.

Next she was at the cottage rousing Hosmer. But the alarm of the bell had already awakened him, and he was dressed and out on the porch almost as soon as Therese had called. Melicent joined them, highly agitated, and prepared to contribute her share towards any scene that might be going forward. But she found little encouragement for heroics with Hosmer. In saddling his horse rather hastily he was as unmoved as though preparing for an uneventful morning canter. He stood at the foot of the stairs preparing to mount when Gregoire rode up as if pursued by furies; checking his horse with a quick, violent wrench that set it quivering in its taut limbs.

"Well," said Hosmer, "I guess it's done for. How did it happen? who did it?"

"Jocint's work," answered Gregoire bitingly.

"The damned scoundrel," muttered Hosmer, "where is he?"

"Don' botha 'bout Jocint; he ain't goin' to set no mo' mill afire," saying which, he turned his horse and the two rode furiously away.

Melicent grasped Therese's arm convulsively.

"What does he mean?" she asked in a frightened whisper.

"I—I don't know," Therese faltered. She had clasped her hands spasmodically together, at Gregoire's words, trembling with horror of what must be their meaning.

"May be he arrested him," suggested the girl.

"I hope so. Come; let's go to bed: there's no use staying out here in the cold and dark."

Hosmer had left the sitting-room door open, and Therese entered. She approached Fanny's door and knocked twice: not brusquely, but sufficiently loud to be heard from within, by any one who was awake. No answer came, and she went away, knowing that Fanny slept.

The unusual sound of the bell, ringing two hours past midnight—that very deadest hour of the night—had roused the whole plantation. On all sides squads of men and a few venturesome women were hurrying towards the fire; the dread of supernatural encounters overcome for the moment by such strong reality and by the confidence lent them in each other's company.

There were many already gathered around the mill, when Gregoire and Hosmer reached it. All effort to save anything had been abandoned as useless. The books and valuables had been removed from the office. The few householders—mill-hands—whose homes were close by, had carried their scant belongings to places of safety, but everything else was given over to the devouring flames.

The heat from this big raging fire was intense, and had driven most of the gaping spectators gradually back—almost into the woods. But there, to one side, where the fire was rapidly gaining, and making itself already uncomfortably felt, stood a small awe-stricken group talking in whispers; their ignorance and superstition making them irresolute to lay a hand upon the dead Jocint. His body lay amongst the heavy timbers, across a huge beam, with arms outstretched and head hanging down upon the ground. The glazed eyes were staring up into the red sky, and on his swarthy visage was yet the horror which had come there, when he looked in the face of death.

"In God's name, what are you doing?" cried Hosmer. "Can't some of you carry that boy's body to a place of safety?"

Gregoire had followed, and was looking down indifferently at the dead. "Come, len' a han' there; this is gittin' too durn hot," he said, stooping to raise the lifeless form. Hosmer was preparing to help him. But there was some one staggering through the crowd; pushing men to right and left. With now a hand upon the breast of both Hosmer and Gregoire, and thrusting them with such force and violence, as to lay them prone amongst the timbers. It was the father. It was old Morico. He had awakened in the night and missed his boy. He had seen the fire; indeed close enough that he could hear its roaring; and he knew everything. The whole story was plain to him as if it had been told by a revealing angel. The strength of his youth had come back to speed him over the ground.

"Murderers!" he cried looking about him with hate in his face. He did not know who had done it; no one knew yet, and he saw in every man he looked upon the possible slayer of his child.

So here he stood over the prostrate figure; his old gray jeans hanging loosely about him; wild eyed—with bare head clasped between his claw-like hands, which the white disheveled hair swept over. Hosmer approached again, offering gently to help him carry his son away.

"Stand back," he hurled at him. But he had understood the offer. His boy must not be left to burn like a log of wood. He bent down and strove to lift the heavy body, but the effort was beyond his strength. Seeing this he stooped again and this time grasped it beneath the arms; then slowly, draggingly, with halting step, began to move backward.

The fire claimed no more attention. All eyes were fastened upon this weird picture; a sight which moved the most callous to offer again and again assistance, that was each time spurned with an added defiance.

Hosmer stood looking on, with folded arms; moved by the grandeur and majesty of the scene. The devouring element, loosed in its awful recklessness there in the heart of this lonely forest. The motley group of black and white standing out in the great red light, powerless to do more than wait and watch. But more was he stirred to the depths of his being, by the sight of this human tragedy enacted before his eyes.

Once, the old man stops in his backward journey. Will he give over? has his strength deserted him? is the thought that seizes every on-looker. But no—with renewed effort he begins again his slow retreat, till at last a sigh of relief comes from the whole watching multitude. Morico with his burden has reached a spot of safety. What will he do next? They watch in breathless suspense. But Morico does nothing. He only stands immovable as a carved image. Suddenly there is a cry that reaches far above the roar of fire and crash of falling timbers: "Mon fils! mon garcon!" and the old man totters and falls backward to earth, still clinging to the lifeless body of his son. All hasten towards him. Hosmer reaches him first. And when he gently lifts the dead Jocint, the father this time makes no hinderance, for he too has gone beyond the knowledge of all earthly happenings.



VII

Melicent Leaves Place-du-Bois.

There had been no witness to the killing of Jocint; but there were few who did not recognize Gregoire's hand in the affair. When met with the accusation, he denied it, or acknowledged it, or evaded the charge with a jest, as he felt for the moment inclined. It was a deed characteristic of any one of the Santien boys, and if not altogether laudable—Jocint having been at the time of the shooting unarmed—yet was it thought in a measure justified by the heinousness of his offense, and beyond dispute, a benefit to the community.

Hosmer reserved the expression of his opinion. The occurrence once over, with the emotions which it had awakened, he was inclined to look at it from one of those philosophic stand-points of his friend Homeyer. Heredity and pathology had to be considered in relation with the slayer's character. He saw in it one of those interesting problems of human existence that are ever turning up for man's contemplation, but hardly for the exercise of man's individual judgment. He was conscious of an inward repulsion which this action of Gregoire's awakened in him,—much the same as a feeling of disgust for an animal whose instinct drives it to the doing of violent deeds,—yet he made no difference in his manner towards him.

Therese was deeply distressed over this double tragedy: feeling keenly the unhappy ending of old Morico. But her chief sorrow came from the callousness of Gregoire, whom she could not move even to an avowal of regret. He could not understand that he should receive any thing but praise for having rid the community of so offensive and dangerous a personage as Jocint; and seemed utterly blind to the moral aspect of his deed.

An event at once so exciting and dramatic as this conflagration, with the attendant deaths of Morico and his son, was much discussed amongst the negroes. They were a good deal of one opinion in regard to Jocint having been only properly served in getting "w'at he done ben lookin' fu' dis long time." Gregoire was rather looked upon as a clever instrument in the Lord's service; and the occurrence pointed a moral which they were not likely to forget.

The burning of the mill entailed much work upon Hosmer, to which he turned with a zest—an absorption that for the time excluded everything else.

Melicent had shunned Gregoire since the shooting. She had avoided speaking with him—even looking at him. During the turmoil which closely followed upon the tragic event, this change in the girl had escaped his notice. On the next day he suspected it only. But the third day brought him the terrible conviction. He did not know that she was making preparations to leave for St. Louis, and quite accidentally overheard Hosmer giving an order to one of the unemployed mill hands to call for her baggage on the following morning before train time.

As much as he had expected her departure, and looked painfully forward to it, this certainty—that she was leaving on the morrow and without a word to him—bewildered him. He abandoned at once the work that was occupying him.

"I didn' know Miss Melicent was goin' away to-morrow," he said in a strange pleading voice to Hosmer.

"Why, yes," Hosmer answered, "I thought you knew. She's been talking about it for a couple of days."

"No, I didn' know nothin' 'tall 'bout it," he said, turning away and reaching for his hat, but with such nerveless hand that he almost dropped it before placing it on his head.

"If you're going to the house," Hosmer called after him, "tell Melicent that Woodson won't go for her trunks before morning. She thought she'd need to have them ready to-night."

"Yes, if I go to the house. I don' know if I'm goin' to the house or not," he replied, walking listlessly away.

Hosmer looked after the young man, and thought of him for a moment: of his soft voice and gentle manner—perplexed that he should be the same who had expressed in confidence the single regret that he had not been able to kill Jocint more than once.

Gregoire went directly to the house, and approached that end of the veranda on which Melicent's room opened. A trunk had already been packed and fastened and stood outside, just beneath the low-silled window that was open. Within the room, and also beneath the window, was another trunk, before which Melicent kneeled, filling it more or less systematically from an abundance of woman's toggery that lay in a cumbrous heap on the floor beside her. Gregoire stopped at the window to tell her, with a sad attempt at indifference:

"Yo' brotha says don't hurry packin'; Woodson ain't goin' to come fur your trunks tell mornin'."

"All right, thank you," glancing towards him for an instant carelessly and going on with her work.

"I didn' know you was goin' away."

"That's absurd: you knew all along I was going away," she returned, with countenance as expressionless as feminine subtlety could make it.

"W'y don't you let somebody else do that? Can't you come out yere a w'ile?"

"No, I prefer doing it myself; and I don't care to go out."

What could he do? what could he say? There were no convenient depths in his mind from which he might draw at will, apt and telling speeches to taunt her with. His heart was swelling and choking him, at sight of the eyes that looked anywhere, but in his own; at sight of the lips that he had one time kissed, pressed into an icy silence. She went on with her task of packing, unmoved. He stood a while longer, silently watching her, his hat in his hands that were clasped behind him, and a stupor of grief holding him vise-like. Then he walked away. He felt somewhat as he remembered to have felt oftentimes as a boy, when ill and suffering, his mother would put him to bed and send him a cup of bouillon perhaps, and a little negro to sit beside him. It seemed very cruel to him now that some one should not do something for him—that he should be left to suffer this way. He walked across the lawn over to the cottage, where he saw Fanny pacing slowly up and down the porch.

She saw him approach and stood in a patch of sunlight to wait for him. He really had nothing to say to her as he stood grasping two of the balustrades and looking up at her. He wanted somebody to talk to him about Melicent.

"Did you know Miss Melicent was goin' away?"

Had it been Hosmer or Therese asking her the question she would have replied simply "yes," but to Gregoire she said "yes; thank Goodness," as frankly as though she had been speaking to Belle Worthington. "I don't see what's kept her down here all this time, anyway."

"You don't like her?" he asked, stupefied at the strange possibility of any one not loving Melicent to distraction.

"No. You wouldn't either, if you knew her as well as I do. If she likes a person she goes on like a lunatic over them as long as it lasts; then good-bye John! she'll throw them aside as she would an old dress."

"Oh, I believe she thinks a heap of Aunt Therese."

"All right; you'll see how much she thinks of Aunt Therese. And the people she's been engaged to! There ain't a worse flirt in the city of St. Louis; and always some excuse or other to break it off at the last minute. I haven't got any use for her, Lord knows. There ain't much love lost between us."

"Well, I reckon she knows they ain't anybody born, good enough fur her?" he said, thinking of those engagements that she had shattered.

"What was David doing?" Fanny asked abruptly.

"Writin' lettas at the sto'."

"Did he say when he was coming?"

"No."

"Do you guess he'll come pretty soon?"

"No, I reckon not fur a good w'ile."

"Is Melicent with Mrs. Laferm?"

"No; she's packin' her things."

"I guess I'll go sit with Mrs. Laferm, d'you think she'll mind?"

"No, she'll be glad to have you."

Fanny crossed over to go join Therese. She liked to be with her when there was no danger of interruption from Melicent, and Gregoire went wandering aimlessly about the plantation.

He staked great hopes on what the night might bring for him. She would melt, perhaps, to the extent of a smile or one of her old glances. He was almost cheerful when he seated himself at table; only he and his aunt and Melicent. He had never seen her look so handsome as now, in a woolen gown that she had not worn before, of warm rich tint, that brought out a certain regal splendor that he had not suspected in her. A something that she seemed to have held in reserve till this final moment. But she had nothing for him—nothing. All her conversation was addressed to Therese; and she hurried away from table at the close of the meal, under pretext of completing her arrangements for departure.

"Doesn't she mean to speak to me?" he asked fiercely of Therese.

"Oh, Gregoire, I see so much trouble around me; so many sad mistakes, and I feel so powerless to right them; as if my hands were tied. I can't help you in this; not now. But let me help you in other ways. Will you listen to me?"

"If you want to help me, Aunt," he said stabbing his fork into a piece of bread before him, "go and ask her if she doesn't mean to talk to me: if she won't come out on the gallery a minute."

"Gregoire wants to know if you won't go out and speak to him a moment, Melicent," said Therese entering the girl's room. "Do as you wish, of course. But remember you are going away to-morrow; you'll likely never see him again. A friendly word from you now, may do more good than you imagine. I believe he's as unhappy at this moment as a creature can be!"

Melicent looked at her horrified. "I don't understand you at all, Mrs. Lafirme. Think what he's done; murdered a defenseless man! How can you have him near you—seated at your table? I don't know what nerves you have in your bodies, you and David. There's David, hobnobbing with him. Even that Fanny talking to him as if he were blameless. Never! If he were dying I wouldn't go near him."

"Haven't you a spark of humanity in you?" asked Therese, flushing violently.

"Oh, this is something physical," she replied, shivering, "let me alone."

Therese went out to Gregoire, who stood waiting on the veranda. She only took his hand and pressed it telling him good-night, and he knew that it was a dismissal.

There may be lovers, who, under the circumstances, would have felt sufficient pride to refrain from going to the depot on the following morning, but Gregoire was not one of them. He was there. He who only a week before had thought that nothing but her constant presence could reconcile him with life, had narrowed down the conditions for his life's happiness now to a glance or a kind word. He stood close to the steps of the Pullman car that she was about to enter, and as she passed him he held out his hand, saying "Good-bye." But he held his hand to no purpose. She was much occupied in taking her valise from the conductor who had hoisted her up, and who was now shouting in stentorian tones "All aboard," though there was not a soul with the slightest intention of boarding the train but herself.

She leaned forward to wave good-bye to Hosmer, and Fanny, and Therese, who were on the platform; then she was gone.

Gregoire stood looking stupidly at the vanishing train.

"Are you going back with us?" Hosmer asked him. Fanny and Therese had walked ahead.

"No," he replied, looking at Hosmer with ashen face, "I got to go fine my hoss."



VIII

With Loose Rein.

"De Lord be praised fu' de blessin's dat he showers down 'pon us," was Uncle Hiram's graceful conclusion of his supper, after which he pushed his empty plate aside regretfully, and addressed Aunt Belindy. " 'Pears to me, Belindy, as you reached a pint wid dem bacon an' greens to-night, dat you never tetched befo'. De pint o' de flavorin' is w'at I alludes to."

"All de same, dat ain't gwine to fetch no mo'," was the rather uncivil reply to this neat compliment to her culinary powers.

"Dah!" cried the youthful Betsy, who formed one of the trio gathered together in the kitchen at Place-du-Bois. "Jis listen (to) Unc' Hiurm! Aunt B'lindy neva tetched a han' to dem bacon an' greens. She tole me out o' her own mouf to put'em on de fiar; she warn't gwine pesta wid 'em."

"Warn't gwine pesta wid 'em?" administering a cuff on the ear of the too communicative Betsy, that sent her sprawling across the table. "T'inks I'se gwine pesta wid you—does you? Messin' roun' heah in de kitchin' an' ain't tu'ned down a bed or drawed a bah, or done a lick o' yo' night wurk yit."

"I is done my night wurk, too," returned Betsy whimpering but defiantly, as she retreated beyond reach of further blows from Aunt Belindy's powerful right hand.

"Dat harshness o' yourn, Belindy, is wat's a sourin' yo' tempa, an' a turnin' of it intur gall an' wormwood. Does you know wat de Scripture tells us of de wrathful woman?"

"Whar I got time to go a foolin' wid Scripture? W'at I wants to know; whar dat Pierson boy, he don't come. He ben gone time 'nough to walk to Natch'toches an' back."

"Ain't dat him I years yonda tu de crib?" suggestod Betsy, coming to join Aunt Belindy in the open doorway.

"You heahs mos' too much fu' yo' own good, you does, gal."

But Betsy was right. For soon a tall, slim negro, young and coal black, mounted the stairs and came into the kitchen, where he deposited a meal bag filled with various necessities that he had brought from Centerville. He was one of the dancers who had displayed their skill before Melicent and Gregoire. Uncle Hiram at once accosted him.

"Well, Pierson, we jest a ben a wonderin' consarnin' you. W'at was de 'casion o' dat long delay?"

"De 'casion? W'y man alive, I couldn't git a dog gone soul in de town to wait on me."

"Dat boy kin lie, yas," said Aunt Belindy, "God A'mighty knows ever time I ben to Centaville dem sto' keepas ain't done a blessed t'ing but settin' down."

"Settin' down—Lord! dey warn't settin' down to-day; you heah me."

"W'at dey doin' ef dey ain't settin' down, Unc' Pierson?" asked Betsy with amiable curiosity.

"You jis drap dat 'uncle,' you," turning wrathfully upon the girl, "sence w'en you start dat new trick?"

"Lef de chile 'lone, Pierson, lef 'er alone. Come heah, Betsy, an' set by yo' Uncle Hiurm."

From the encouraging nearness of Uncle Hiram, she ventured to ask "w'at you 'low dey doin' ef dey ain't settin' down?" this time without adding the offensive title.

"Dey flyin' 'roun', Lord! dey hidin' dey sef! dey gittin' out o' de way, I tell you. Gregor jis ben a raisin' ole Cain in Centaville."

"I know'd it; could a' tole you dat mese'f. My Lan'! but dats a piece, dat Gregor," Aunt Belindy enunciated between paroxysms of laughter, seating herself with her fat arms resting on her knees, and her whole bearing announcing pleased anticipation.

"Dat boy neva did have no car' fur de salvation o' his soul," groaned Uncle Hiram.

"W'at he ben a doin' yonda?" demanded Aunt Belindy impatiently.

"Well," said Pierson, assuming a declamatory air and position in the middle of the large kitchen, "he lef' heah—w'at time he lef heah, Aunt B'lindy?"

"He done lef' fo' dinna, 'caze I seed 'im a lopin' to'ads de riva, time I flung dat Sampson boy out o' de doo', bringin' dem greens in heah 'dout washin' of 'em."

"Dat's so; it war good dinna time w'en he come a lopin' in town. Dat hoss look like he ben swimmin' in Cane Riva, he done ride him so hard. He fling he se'f down front o' Grammont's sto' an' he come a stompin' in, look like gwine hu't somebody. Ole Grammont tell him, 'How you come on, Gregor? Come ova tu de house an' eat dinna wid us: de ladies be pleas tu see you.' "

"Humph," muttered Aunt Belindy, "dem Grammont gals be glad to see any t'ing dat got breeches on; lef 'lone good lookin' piece like dat Gregor."

"Gregor, he neva sey, 'Tank you dog,' jis' fling he big dolla down on de counta an' 'low 'don't want no dinna: gimme some w'iskey.' "

"Yas, yas, Lord," from Aunt Belindy.

"Ole Grammont, he push de bottle to'ads 'im, an' I 'clar to Goodness ef he didn' mos fill dat tumbla to de brim, an' drink it down, neva blink a eye. Den he tu'n an treat ev'y las' w'ite man stan'in' roun'; dat ole kiarpenta man; de blacksmif; Marse Verdon. He keep on a treatin'; Grammont, he keep a handin' out de w'iskey; Gregor he keep on a drinkin' an a treatin'—Grammont, he keep a handin' out; don't make no odds tu him s'long uz dat bring de money in de draw. I ben a stan'in' out on de gallery, me, a peekin' in. An' Gregor, he cuss and swar an' he kiarry on, an 'low he want play game poka. Den dey all goes a trompin' in de back room an' sets down roun' de table, an' I comes a creepin' in, me, whar I kin look frough de doo', an dar dey sets an' plays an Gregor, he drinks w'iskey an' he wins de money. An' arta w'ile Marse Verdon, he little eyes blinkin', he 'low', 'y' all had a shootin' down tu Place-du-Bois, hein Gregor?' Gregor, he neva say nuttin': he jis' draw he pistol slow out o' he pocket an' lay it down on de table; an' he look squar in Marse Verdon eyes. Man! ef you eva seed some pussun tu'n' w'ite!"

"Reckon dat heifa 'Milky' look black side li'le Verdon dat time," chuckled Aunt Belindy.

"Jis' uz w'ite uz Unc' Hiurm's shurt an' a trimblin', an' neva say no mo' 'bout shootin'. Den ole Grammont, he kine o' hang back an' say, 'You git de jestice de peace, 'hine you, kiarrin' conceal' weepons dat a-way, Gregor.' "

"Dat ole Grammont, he got to git he gab in ef he gwine die fu' it," interrupted Aunt Belindy.

"Gregor say—'I don't 'lows to kiarr no conceal' weepons,' an he draw nudda pistol slow out o' he udda pocket an' lay et on de table. By dat time he gittin' all de money, he crammin' de money in he pocket; an' dem fellas dey gits up one arta d'udda kine o' shy-like, an' sneaks out. Den Gregor, he git up an come out o' de room, he coat 'crost he arm, an' de pistols a stickin' out an him lookin' sassy tell ev'y body make way, same ef he ben Jay Goul'. Ef he look one o' 'em in de eye dey outs wid, 'Howdy, Gregor—how you come on, Gregor?' jis' uz pelite uz a peacock, an' him neva take no trouble to yansa 'em. He jis' holla out fu' somebody bring dat hoss tu de steps, an' him stan'in' 's big uz life, waitin'. I gits tu de hoss fus', me, an' leads 'im up, an' he gits top dat hoss stidy like he ain't tetch a drap, an' he fling me big dolla."

"Whar de dolla, Mista Pierson?" enquired Betsy.

"De dolla in my pocket, an' et gwine stay dah. Didn' ax you fu' no 'Mista Pierson.' Whar yu' all tink he went on dat hoss?"

"How you reckon we knows whar he wint; we wasn't dah," replied Aunt Belindy.

"He jis' went a lopin' twenty yards down to Chartrand's sto'. I goes on 'hine 'im see w'at he gwine do. Dah he git down f'um de hoss an' go a stompin' in de sto'—eve'ybody stan'in' back jis' same like fu' Jay Goul', an' he fling bill down on de counta an' 'low, 'Fill me up a bottle, Chartrand, I'se gwine travelin'.' Den he 'lows, 'You treats eve'y las' man roun' heah at my 'spence, black an' w'ite—nuttin' fu' me,' an' he fole he arms an' lean back on de counta, jis' so. Chartrand, he look skeerd, he say 'Francois gwine wait on you.' But Gregor, he 'low he don't wants no rusty skileton a waitin' on him w'en he treat, 'Wait on de gemmen yo'se'f—step up gemmen.' Chartrand 'low, 'Damn ef nigga gwine drink wid w'ite man in dat sto',' all same he kine git 'hine box tu say dat."

"Lord, Lord, de ways o' de transgressor!" groaned Uncle Hiram.

"You want to see dem niggas sneaking 'way," resumed Pierson, "dey knows Gregor gwine fo'ce 'em drink; dey knows Chartrand gwine make it hot fu' 'em art'ards ef dey does. Gregor he spie me jis' I'se tryin' glide frough de doo' an he call out, 'Yonda a gemmen f'um Place-du-Bois; Pierson, come heah; you'se good 'nough tu drink wid any w'ite man, 'cept me; you come heah, take drink wid Mr. Louis Chartrand.'

"I 'lows don't wants no drink, much 'bleege, Marse Gregor'. 'Yis, you wants drink,' an' 'id dat he draws he pistol. 'Mista Chartrand want drink, too. I done owe Mista Chartrand somethin' dis long time; I'se gwine pay 'im wid a treat,' he say. Chartrand look like he on fiar, he so red, he so mad, he swell up same like ole bull frog."

"Dat make no odd," chuckled Aunt Belindy, "he gwine drink wid nigga ef Gregor say so."

"Yes, he drink, Lord, only he cuss me slow, an' 'low he gwine break my skull."

"Lordy! I knows you was jis' a trimblin', Mista Pierson."

"Warn't trimblin' no mo' 'en I'se trimblin' dis minute, an' you drap dat 'Mista.' Den w'at you reckon? Yonda come Pere Antoine; he come an' stan' in de doo' an' he hole up he han'; look like he ain't 'feard no body an' he 'low: 'Gregor Sanchun, how is you dar' come in dis heah peaceful town frowin' of it into disorda an' confusion? Ef you isn't 'feard o' man; hasn't you got no fear o' God A'mighty wat punishes?' "

"Gregor, he look at 'im an' he say cool like, 'Howdy, Pere Antoine; how you come on?' He got he pistol w'at he draw fu' make Chartrand drink wid dis heah nigga,—he foolin' wid it an' a rubbin' it up and down he pants, an' he 'low 'Dis a gemmen w'at fit to drink wid a Sanchun—w'at'll you have?' But Pere Antoine, he go on makin' a su'mon same like he make in chu'ch, an' Gregor, he lean he two arm back on de counta—kine o' smilin' like, an' he say, 'Chartrand, whar dat bottle I orda you put up?' Chartrand bring de bottle; Gregor, he put de bottle in he coat pocket wat hang on he arm—car'ful.

"Pere Antoine, he go on preachin', he say, 'I tell you dis young man, you 'se on de big road w'at leads tu hell.'

"Den Gregor straight he se'f up an' walk close to Pere Antoine an' he say, 'Hell an' damnation dar ain't no sich a place. I reckon she know; w'at you know side o' her. She say dar ain't no hell, an' ef you an' de Archbishop an' de Angel Gabriel come along an' 'low dey a hell, you all liars,' an' he say, 'Make way dah, I'se a gittin' out o' heah; dis ain't no town fittin' to hol' a Sanchun. Make way ef you don' wants to go to Kingdom come fo' yo' time.'

"Well, I 'lows dey did make way. Only Pere Antoine, he look mighty sorry an' down cas'.

"Gregor go out dat sto' taking plenty room, an' walkin' car'ful like, an' he swing he se'f on de hoss; den he lean down mos' flat an' stick he spurs in dat hoss an' he go tar'in' like de win' down street, out o' de town, a firin' he pistol up in de a'r."

Uncle Hiram had listened to the foregoing recital with troubled countenance, and with many a protesting groan. He now shook his old white head, and heaved a deep sigh. "All dat gwine come hard an' heavy on de madam. She don't desarve it—God knows, she don't desarve it."

"How you, ole like you is, kin look fu' somethin' diffunt, Unc' Hiurm?" observed Aunt Belindy philosophically. "Don't you know Gregor gwine be Gregor tell he die? Dat's all dar is 'bout it."

Betsy arose with the sudden recollection that she had let the time pass for bringing in Miss Therese's hot water, and Pierson went to the stove to see what Aunt Belindy had reserved for him in the shape of supper.



IX

The Reason Why.

Sampson, the young colored boy who had lighted Fanny's fire on the first day of her arrival at Place-du-Bois, and who had made such insinuating advances of friendliness towards her, had continued to attract her notice and good will. He it was who lighted her fires on such mornings as they were needed. For there had been no winter. In mid-January, the grass was fresh and green; trees and plants were putting forth tender shoots, as if in welcome to spring; roses were blossoming, and it was a veritable atmosphere of Havana rather than of central Louisiana that the dwellers at Place-du-Bois were enjoying. But finally winter made tardy assertion of its rights. One morning broke raw and black with an icy rain falling, and young Sampson arriving in the early bleakness to attend to his duties at the cottage, presented a picture of human distress to move the most hardened to pity. Though dressed comfortably in the clothing with which Fanny had apparelled him—he was ashen. Save for the chattering of his teeth, his body seemed possessed of a paralytic inability to move. He knelt before the empty fire-place as he had done on that first day, and with deep sighs and groans went about his work. Then he remained long before the warmth that he had kindled; even lying full length upon the soft rug, to bask in the generous heat that permeated and seemed to thaw his stiffened limbs.

Next, he went quietly into the bedroom to attend to the fire there. Hosmer and Fanny were still sleeping. He approached a decorated basket that hung against the wall; a receptacle for old newspapers and odds and ends. He drew something from his rather capacious coat pocket, and, satisfying himself that Hosmer slept, thrust it in the bottom of the basket, well covered by the nondescript accumulation that was there.

The house was very warm and cheerful when they arose, and after breakfasting Hosmer felt unusually reluctant to quit his fire-side and face the inclement day; for an unaccustomed fatigue hung upon his limbs and his body was sore, as from the effect of bruises. But he went, nevertheless, well encased in protective rubber; and as he turned away from the house, Fanny hastened to the hanging basket, and fumbling nervously in its depths, found what the complaisant Sampson had left for her.

The cold rain had gradually changed into a fine mist, that in descending, spread an icy coat upon every object that it touched. When Hosmer returned at noon, he did not leave the house again.

During the afternoon Therese knocked at Fanny's door. She was enveloped in a long hooded cloak, her face glowing from contact with the sharp moist air, and myriad crystal drops clinging to her fluffy blonde hair that looked very golden under the dark hood that covered it. She wanted to learn how Fanny accepted this unpleasant change of atmospheric conditions, intending to bear her company for the remainder of the day if she found her depressed, as was often the case.

"Why, I didn't know you were home," she said, a little startled, to Hosmer who opened the door to her. "I came over to show Mrs. Hosmer something pretty that I don't suppose she ever saw before." It was a branch from a rose-tree, bearing two open blossoms and a multitude of buds, creamy pink, all encased in an icy transparency that gleamed like diamonds. "Isn't it exquisite?" she said, holding the spray up for Fanny's admiration. But she saw at a glance that the spirit of Disorder had descended and settled upon the Hosmer household.

The usually neat room was in a sad state of confusion. Some of the pictures had been taken from the walls, and were leaning here and there against chairs and tables. The mantel ornaments had been removed and deposited at random and in groups about the room. On the hearth was a pail of water in which swam a huge sponge; and Fanny sat beside the center-table that was piled with her husband's wearing apparel, holding in her lap a coat which she had evidently been passing under inspection. Her hair had escaped from its fastenings; her collar was hooked awry; her face was flushed and her whole bearing indicated her condition.

Hosmer took the frozen spray from Therese's hand, and spoke a little about the beauty of the trees, especially the young cedars that he had passed out in the hills on his way home.

"It's all well and good to talk about flowers and things, Mrs. Laferm—sit down please—but when a person's got the job that I've got on my hands, she's something else to think about. And David here smoking one cigar after another. He knows all I've got to do, and goes and sends those darkies home right after dinner."

Therese was so shocked that for a while she could say nothing; till for Hosmer's sake she made a quick effort to appear at ease.

"What have you to do, Mrs. Hosmer? Let me help you, I can give you the whole afternoon," she said with an appearance of being ready for any thing that was at hand to be done.

Fanny turned the coat over in her lap, and looked down helplessly at a stain on the collar, that she had been endeavoring to remove; at the same time pushing aside with patient repetition the wisp of hair that kept falling over her cheek.

"Belle Worthington'll be here before we know it; her and her husband and that Lucilla of hers. David knows how Belle Worthington is, just as well as I do; there's no use saying he don't. If she was to see a speck of dirt in this house or on David's clothes, or anything, why we'd never hear the last of it. I got a letter from her," she continued, letting the coat fall to the floor, whilst she endeavored to find her pocket.

"Is she coming to visit you?" asked Therese who had taken up a feather brush, and was dusting and replacing the various ornaments that were scattered through the room.

"She's going down to Muddy Graw (Mardi-Gras) her and her husband and Lucilla and she's going to stop here a while. I had that letter—I guess I must of left it in the other room."

"Never mind," Therese hastened to say, seeing that her whole energies were centered on finding the letter.

"Let me look," said Hosmer, making a movement towards the bedroom door, but Fanny had arisen and holding out a hand to detain him she went into the room herself, saying she knew where she'd left it.

"Is this the reason you've kept yourself shut up here in the house so often?" Therese asked of Hosmer, drawing near him. "Never telling me a word of it," she went on, "it wasn't right; it wasn't kind."

"Why should I have put any extra burden on you?" he answered, looking down at her, and feeling a joy in her presence there, that seemed like a guilty indulgence in face of his domestic shame.

"Don't stay," Therese said. "Leave me here. Go to your office or over to the house—leave me alone with her."

Fanny returned, having found the letter, and spoke with increased vehemence of the necessity of having the house in perfect trim against the arrival of Belle Worthington, from whom they would never hear the last, and so forth.

"Well, your husband is going out, and that will give us a chance to get things righted," said Therese encouragingly. "You know men are always in the way at such times."

"It's what he ought to done before; and left Suze and Minervy here," she replied with grudging acquiescence.

After repeated visits to the bedroom, under various pretexts, Fanny grew utterly incapable to do more than sit and gaze stupidly at Therese, who busied herself in bringing the confusion of the sitting-room into some order.

She continued to talk disjointedly of Belle Worthington and her well known tyrannical characteristics in regard to cleanliness; finishing by weeping mildly at the prospect of her own inability to ever reach the high standard required by her exacting friend.

It was far in the afternoon—verging upon night, when Therese succeeded in persuading her that she was ill and should go to bed. She gladly seized upon the suggestion of illness; assuring Therese that she alone had guessed her affliction: that whatever was thought singular in her behavior must be explained by that sickness which was past being guessed at—then she went to bed.

It was late when Hosmer left his office; a rough temporary shanty, put together near the ruined mill.

He started out slowly on his long cold ride. His physical malaise of the morning had augmented as the day went on, and he was beginning to admit to himself that he was "in for it."

But the cheerless ride was lightened by a picture that had been with him through the afternoon, and that moved him in his whole being, as the moment approached when it might be changed to reality. He knew Fanny's habits; knew that she would be sleeping now. Therese would not leave her there alone in the house—of that he was sure. And he pictured Therese at this moment seated at his fire-side. He would find her there when he entered. His heart beat tumultuously at the thought. It was a very weak moment with him, possibly, one in which his unnerved condition stood for some account. But he felt that when he saw her there, waiting for him, he would cast himself at her feet and kiss them. He would crush her white hands against his bosom. He would bury his face in her silken hair. She should know how strong his love was, and he would hold her in his arms till she yield back tenderness to his own. But—Therese met him on the steps. As he was mounting them, she was descending; wrapped in her long cloak, her pretty head covered by the dark hood.

"Oh, are you going?" he asked.

She heard the note of entreaty in his voice.

"Yes," she answered, "I shouldn't have left her before you came; but I knew you were here; I heard your horse's tread a moment ago. She's asleep. Good night. Take courage and have a brave heart," she said, pressing his hand a moment in both hers, and was gone.

The room was as he had pictured it; order restored and the fire blazing brightly. On the table was a pot of hot tea and a tempting little supper laid. But he pushed it all aside and buried his face down upon the table into his folded arms, groaning aloud. Physical suffering; thwarted love, and at the same time a feeling of self-condemnation, made him wish that life were ended for him.

Fanny awoke close upon morning, not knowing what had aroused her. She was for a little while all bewildered and unable to collect herself. She soon learned the cause of her disturbance. Hosmer was tossing about and his outstretched arm lay across her face, where it had evidently been flung with some violence. She took his hand to move it away, and it burned her like a coal of fire. As she touched him he started and began to talk incoherently. He evidently fancied himself dictating a letter to some insurance company, in no pleased terms—of which Fanny caught but snatches. Then:

"That's too much, Mrs. Lafirme; too much—too much—Don't let Gregoire burn—take him from the fire, some one. Thirty day's credit—shipment made on tenth," he rambled on at intervals in his troubled sleep.

Fanny trembled with apprehension as she heard him. Surely he has brain fever she thought, and she laid her hand gently on his burning forehead. He covered it with his own, muttering "Therese, Therese—so good—let me love you."



X

Perplexing Things.

"Lucilla!"

The pale, drooping girl started guiltily at her mother's sharp exclamation, and made an effort to throw back her shoulders. Then she bit her nails nervously, but soon desisted, remembering that that also, as well as yielding to a relaxed tendency of the spinal column, was a forbidden indulgence.

"Put on your hat and go on out and get a breath of fresh air; you're as white as milk-man's cream."

Lucilla rose and obeyed her mother's order with the precision of a soldier, following the directions of his commander.

"How submissive and gentle your daughter is," remarked Therese.

"Well, she's got to be, and she knows it. Why, I haven't got to do more than look at that girl most times for her to understand what I want. You didn't notice, did you, how she straightened up when I called 'Lucilla' to her? She knows by the tone of my voice what she's got to do."

"Most mothers can't boast of having such power over their daughters."

"Well, I'm not the woman to stand any shenanigans from a child of mine. I could name you dead loads of women that are just completely walked over by their children. It's a blessing that boy of Fanny's died, between you and I; its what I've always said. Why, Mrs. Laferm, she couldn't any more look after a youngster than she could after a baby elephant. By the by, what do you guess is the matter with her, any way?"

"How, the matter?" Therese asked; the too ready blood flushing her face and neck as she laid down her work and looked up at Mrs. Worthington.

"Why, she's acting mighty queer, that's all I can say for her."

"I haven't been able to see her for some time," Therese returned, going back to her sewing, "but I suppose she got a little upset and nervous over her husband; he had a few days of very serious illness before you came."

"Oh, I've seen her in all sorts of states and conditions, and I've never seen her like that before. Why, she does nothing in the God's world but whine and sniffle, and wish she was dead; it's enough to give a person the horrors. She can't make out she's sick; I never saw her look better in my life. She must of gained ten pounds since she come down here."

"Yes," said Therese, "she was looking so well, and—and I thought everything was going well with her too, but—" and she hesitated to go on.

"Oh, I know what you want to say. You can't help that. No use bothering your brains about that—now you just take my advice," exclaimed Mrs. Worthington brusquely.

Then she laughed so loud and suddenly that Therese, being already nervous, pricked her finger with her needle till the blood came; a mishap which decided her to lay aside her work.

"If you never saw a fish out of water, Mrs. Laferm, do take a peep at Mr. Worthington astride that horse; it's enough to make a cat expire!"

Mrs. Worthington was on the whole rather inclined to take her husband seriously. As often as he might excite her disapproval, it was seldom that he aroused her mirth. So it may be gathered that his appearance in this unfamiliar role of horseman was of the most mirth-provoking.

He and Hosmer were dismounting at the cottage, which decided Mrs. Worthington to go and look after them; Fanny for the time being—in her opinion—not having "the gumption to look after a sick kitten."

"This is what I call solid comfort," she said looking around the well appointed sitting-room, before quitting it.

"You ought to be a mighty happy woman, Mrs. Laferm; only I'd think you'd die of lonesomeness, sometimes."

Therese laughed, and told her not to forget that she expected them all over in the evening.

"You can depend on me; and I'll do my best to drag Fanny over; so-long."

When left alone, Therese at once relapsed into the gloomy train of reflections that had occupied her since the day she had seen with her bodily eyes something of the wretched life that she had brought upon the man she loved. And yet that wretchedness in its refinement of cruelty and immorality she could not guess and was never to know. Still, she had seen enough to cause her to ask herself with a shudder "was I right—was I right?"

She had always thought this lesson of right and wrong a very plain one. So easy of interpretation that the simplest minded might solve it if they would. And here had come for the first time in her life a staggering doubt as to its nature. She did not suspect that she was submitting one of those knotty problems to her unpracticed judgment that philosophers and theologians delight in disagreeing upon, and her inability to unravel it staggered her. She tried to convince herself that a very insistent sting of remorse which she felt, came from selfishness—from the pain that her own heart suffered in the knowledge of Hosmer's unhappiness. She was not callous enough to quiet her soul with the balm of having intended the best. She continued to ask herself only "was I right?" and it was by the answer to that question that she would abide, whether in the stony content of accomplished righteousness, or in an enduring remorse that pointed to a goal in whose labyrinthine possibilities her soul lost itself and fainted away.

Lucilla went out to get a breath of fresh air as her mother had commanded, but she did not go far to seek it. Not further than the end of the back veranda, where she stood for some time motionless, before beginning to occupy herself in a way which Aunt Belindy, who was watching her from the kitchen window, considered highly problematical. The negress was wiping a dish and giving it a fine polish in her absence of mind. When her curiosity could no longer contain itself she called out:

"W'ats dat you'se doin' dah, you li'le gal? Come heah an' le' me see." Lucilla turned with the startled look which seemed to be usual with her when addressed.

"Le' me see," repeated Aunt Belindy pleasantly.

Lucilla approached the window and handed the woman a small square of stiff writing paper which was stuck with myriad tiny pin-holes; some of which she had been making when interrupted by Aunt Belindy.

"W'at in God A'Mighty's name you call dat 'ar?" the darkey asked examining the paper critically, as though expecting the riddle would solve itself before her eyes.

"Those are my acts I've been counting," the girl replied a little gingerly.

"Yo' ax? I don' see nuttin' 'cep' a piece o' papah plum fill up wid holes. W'at you call ax?"

"Acts—acts. Don't you know what acts are?"

"How you want me know? I neva ben to no school whar you larn all dat."

"Why, an act is something you do that you don't want to do—or something you don't want to do, that you do—I mean that you don't do. Or if you want to eat something and don't. Or an aspiration; that's an act, too."

"Go long! W'ats dat—aspiration?"

"Why, to say any kind of little prayer; or if you invoke our Lord, or our Blessed Lady, or one of the saints, that's an aspiration. You can make them just as quick as you can think—you can make hundreds and hundreds in a day."

"My Lan'! Dat's w'at you'se studyin' 'bout w'en you'se steppin' 'roun' heah like a droopy pullet? An' I t'ought you was studyin' 'bout dat beau you lef' yonda to Sent Lous."

"You mustn't say such things to me; I'm going to be a religious."

"How dat gwine henda you have a beau ef you'se religious?"

"The religious never get married," turning very red, "and don't live in the world like others."

"Look heah, chile, you t'inks I'se fool? Religion—no religion, whar you gwine live ef you don' live in de word? Gwine live up in de moon?"

"You're a very ignorant person," replied Lucilla, highly offended. "A religious devotes her life to God, and lives in the convent."

"Den w'y you neva said 'convent'? I knows all 'bout convent. W'at you gwine do wid dem ax w'en de papah done all fill up?" handing the singular tablet back to her.

"Oh," replied Lucilla, "when I have thousands and thousands I gain twenty-five years' indulgence."

"Is dat so?"

"Yes," said the girl; and divining that Aunt Belindy had not understood, "twenty-five years that I don't have to go to purgatory. You see most people have to spend years and years in purgatory, before they can get to Heaven."

"How you know dat?"

If Aunt Belindy had asked Lucilla how she knew that the sun shone, she could not have answered with more assurance "because I know" as she turned and walked rather scornfully away.

"W'at dat kine o' fool talk dey larns gals up yonda tu Sent Lous? An' huh ma a putty woman; yas, bless me; all dress up fittin' to kill. Don' 'pear like she studyin' 'bout ax."



XI

A Social Evening.

Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Duplan with their little daughter Ninette, who had been invited to Place-du-Bois for supper, as well as for the evening, were seated with Therese in the parlor, awaiting the arrival of the cottage guests. They had left their rather distant plantation, Les Chenieres, early in the afternoon, wishing as usual to make the most of these visits, which, though infrequent, were always so much enjoyed.

The room was somewhat altered since that summer day when Therese had sat in its cool shadows, hearing the story of David Hosmer's life. Only with such difference, however, as the change of season called for; imparting to it a rich warmth that invited to sociability and friendly confidences. In the depths of the great chimney glowed with a steady and dignified heat, the huge back-log, whose disposal Uncle Hiram had superintended in person; and the leaping flames from the dry hickories that surrounded it, lent a very genial light to the grim-visaged Lafirmes who looked down from their elevation on the interesting group gathered about the hearth.

Conversation had never once flagged with these good friends; for, aside from much neighborhood gossip to be told and listened to, there was the always fertile topic of "crops" to be discussed in all its bearings, that touched, in its local and restricted sense, the labor question, cultivation, freight rates, and the city merchant.

With Mrs. Duplan there was a good deal to be said about the unusual mortality among "Plymouth-Rocks" owing to an alarming prevalence of "pip," which malady, however, that lady found to be gradually yielding to a heroic treatment introduced into her basse-cour by one Coulon, a piney wood sage of some repute as a mystic healer.

This was a delicate refined little woman, somewhat old-fashioned and stranded in her incapability to keep pace with the modern conduct of life; but giving her views with a pretty self-confidence, that showed her a ruler in her peculiar realm.

The young Ninette had extended herself in an easy chair, in an attitude of graceful abandonment, the earnest brown eyes looking eagerly out from under a tangle of auburn hair, and resting with absorbed admiration upon her father, whose words and movements she followed with unflagging attentiveness. The fastidious little miss was clad in a dainty gown that reached scarcely below the knees; revealing the shapely limbs that were crossed and extended to let the well shod feet rest upon the polished brass fender.

Therese had given what information lay within her range, concerning the company which was expected. But her confidences had plainly been insufficient to prepare Mrs. Duplan for the startling effect produced by Mrs. Worthington on that little woman in her black silk of a by-gone fashion; so splendid was Mrs. Worthington's erect and imposing figure, so blonde her blonde hair, so bright her striking color and so comprehensive the sweep of her blue and scintillating gown. Yet was Mrs. Worthington not at ease, as might be noticed in the unnatural quaver of her high-pitched voice and the restless motion of her hands, as she seated herself with an arm studiedly resting upon the table near by.

Hosmer had met the Duplans before; on the occasion of a former visit to Place-du-Bois and again at Les Chenieres when he had gone to see the planter on business connected with the lumber trade.

Fanny was a stranger to them and promised to remain such; for she acknowledged her presentation with a silent bow and retreated as far from the group as a decent concession to sociability would permit.

Therese with her pretty Creole tact was not long in bringing these seemingly incongruent elements into some degree of harmony. Mr. Duplan in his courteous and rather lordly way was presently imparting to Mrs. Worthington certain reminiscences of a visit to St. Louis twenty-five years before, when he and Mrs. Duplan had rather hastily traversed that interesting town during their wedding journey. Mr. Duplan's manner had a singular effect upon Mrs. Worthington, who became dignified, subdued, and altogether unnatural in her endeavor to adjust herself to it.

Mr. Worthington seated himself beside Mrs. Duplan and was soon trying to glean information, in his eager short-sighted way, of psychological interest concerning the negro race; such effort rather bewildering that good lady, who could not bring herself to view the negro as an interesting or suitable theme to be introduced into polite conversation.

Hosmer sat and talked good-naturedly to the little girls, endeavoring to dispel the shyness with which they seemed inclined to view each other—and Therese crossed the room to join Fanny.

"I hope you're feeling better," she ventured, "you should have let me help you while Mr. Hosmer was ill."

Fanny looked away, biting her lip, the sudden tears coming to her eyes. She answered with unsteady voice, "Oh, I was able to look after my husband myself, Mrs. Laferm."

Therese reddened at finding herself so misunderstood. "I meant in your housekeeping, Mrs. Hosmer; I could have relieved you of some of that worry, whilst you were occupied with your husband."

Fanny continued to look unhappy; her features taking on that peculiar downward droop which Therese had come to know and mistrust.

"Are you going to New Orleans with Mrs. Worthington?" she asked, "she told me she meant to try and persuade you."

"No; I'm not going. Why?" looking suspiciously in Therese's face.

"Well," laughed Therese, "only for the sake of asking, I suppose. I thought you'd enjoy Mardi-Gras, never having seen it."

"I'm not going anywheres unless David goes along," she said, with an impertinent ring in her voice, and with a conviction that she was administering a stab and a rebuke. She had come prepared to watch her husband and Mrs. Lafirme, her heart swelling with jealous suspicion as she looked constantly from one to the other, endeavoring to detect signs of an understanding between them. Failing to discover such, and loth to be robbed of her morbid feast of misery, she set her failure down to their pre-determined subtlety. Therese was conscious of a change in Fanny's attitude, and felt herself unable to account for it otherwise than by whim, which she knew played a not unimportant role in directing the manner of a large majority of women. Moreover, it was not a moment to lose herself in speculation concerning this woman's capricious behavior. Her guests held the first claim upon her attentions. Indeed, here was Mrs. Worthington even now loudly demanding a pack of cards. "Here's a gentleman never heard of six-handed euchre. If you've got a pack of cards, Mrs. Laferm, I guess I can show him quick enough that it can be done."

"Oh, I don't doubt Mrs. Worthington's ability to make any startling and pleasing revelations," rejoined the planter good humoredly, and gallantly following Mrs. Worthington who had risen with the view of putting into immediate effect her scheme of initiating these slow people into the unsuspected possibilities of euchre; a game which, however adaptable in other ways, could certainly not be indulged in by seven persons. After each one proffering, as is usual on such occasions, his readiness to assume the character of on-looker, Mr. Worthington's claim to entire indifference, if not inability—confirmed by his wife—was accepted as the most sincere, and that gentleman was excluded and excused.

He watched them as they seated themselves at table, even lending assistance, in his own awkward way, to range the chairs in place. Then he followed the game for a while, standing behind Fanny to note the outcome of her reckless offer of "five on hearts," with only three trumps in hand, and every indication of little assistance from her partners, Mr. Duplan and Belle Worthington.

At one end of the room was a long, low, well-filled book-case. Here had been the direction of Mr. Worthington's secret and stolen glances the entire evening. And now towards this point he finally transported himself by gradual movements which he believed appeared unstudied and indifferent. He was confronted by a good deal of French—to him an unfamiliar language. Here a long row of Balzac; then, the Waverley Novels in faded red cloth of very old date. Racine, Moliere, Bulwer following in more modern garb; Shakespeare in a compass that promised very small type. His quick trained glance sweeping along the shelves, contracted into a little frown of resentment while he sent his hand impetuously through his scant locks, standing them quite on end.

On the very lowest shelf were five imposing volumes in dignified black and gold, bearing the simple inscription "Lives of the Saints—Rev. A. Butler." Upon one of them, Mr. Worthington seized, opening it at hazard. He had fallen upon the history of St. Monica, mother of the great St. Austin—a woman whose habits it appears had been so closely guarded in her childhood by a pious nurse, that even the quenching of her natural thirst was permitted only within certain well defined bounds. This mentor used to say "you are now for drinking water, but when you come to be mistress of the cellar, water will be despised, but the habit of drinking will stick by you." Highly interesting, Mr. Worthington thought, as he brushed his hair all down again the right way and seated himself the better to learn the fortunes of the good St. Monica who, curiously enough, notwithstanding those early incentives to temperance, "insensibly contracted an inclination to wine," drinking "whole cups of it with pleasure as it came in her way." A "dangerous intemperance" which it finally pleased Heaven to cure through the instrumentality of a maid servant taunting her mistress with being a "wine bibber."

Mr. Worthington did not stop with the story of Saint Monica. He lost himself in those details of asceticism, martyrdom, superhuman possibilities which man is capable of attaining under peculiar conditions of life—something he had not yet "gone into."

The voices at the card table would certainly have disturbed a man with less power of mind concentration. For Mrs. Worthington in this familiar employment was herself again—con fuoco. Here was Mr. Duplan in high spirits; his wife putting forth little gushes of bird-like exaltation as the fascinations of the game revealed themselves to her. Even Hosmer and Therese were drawn for the moment from their usual preoccupation. Fanny alone was the ghost of the feast. Her features never relaxed from their settled gloom. She played at hap-hazard, listlessly throwing down the cards or letting them fall from her hands, vaguely asking what were trumps at inopportune moments; showing that inattentiveness so exasperating to an eager player and which oftener than once drew a sharp rebuke from Belle Worthington.

"Don't you wish we could play," said Ninette to her companion from her comfortable perch beside the fire, and looking longingly towards the card table.

"Oh, no," replied Lucilla briefly, gazing into the fire, with hands folded in her lap. Thin hands, showing up very white against the dull colored "convent uniform" that hung in plain, severe folds about her and reached to her very ankles.

"Oh, don't you? I play often at home when company comes. And I play cribbage and vingt-et-un with papa and win lots of money from him."

"That's wrong."

"No, it isn't; papa wouldn't do it if it was wrong," she answered decidedly. "Do you go to the convent?" she asked, looking critically at Lucilla and drawing a little nearer, so as to be confidential. "Tell me about it," she continued, when the other had replied affirmatively. "Is it very dreadful? you know they're going to send me soon."

"Oh, it's the best place in the world," corrected Lucilla as eagerly as she could.

"Well, mamma says she was just as happy as could be there, but you see that's so awfully long ago. It must have changed since then."

"The convent never changes: it's always the same. You first go to chapel to mass early in the morning."

"Ugh!" shuddered Ninette.

"Then you have studies," continued Lucilla. "Then breakfast, then recreation, then classes, and there's meditation."

"Oh, well," interrupted Ninette, "I believe anything most would suit you, and mamma when she was little; but if I don't like it—see here, if I tell you something will you promise never, never, to tell?"

"Is it any thing wrong?"

"Oh, no, not very; it isn't a real mortal sin. Will you promise?"

"Yes," agreed Lucilla; curiosity getting something the better of her pious scruples.

"Cross your heart?"

Lucilla crossed her heart carefully, though a little reluctantly.

"Hope you may die?"

"Oh!" exclaimed the little convent girl aghast.

"Oh, pshaw," laughed Ninette, "never mind. But that's what Polly always says when she wants me to believe her: 'hope I may die, Miss Ninette.' Well, this is it: I've been saving up money for the longest time, oh ever so long. I've got eighteen dollars and sixty cents, and when they send me to the convent, if I don't like it, I'm going to run away." This last and startling revelation was told in a tragic whisper in Lucilla's ear, for Betsy was standing before them with a tray of chocolate and coffee that she was passing around.

"I yeard you," proclaimed Betsy with mischievous inscrutable countenance.

"You didn't," said Ninette defiantly, and taking a cup of coffee.

"Yas, I did, I yeard you," walking away.

"See here, Betsy," cried Ninette recalling the girl, "you're not going to tell, are you?"

"Dun know ef I isn't gwine tell. Dun know ef I isn't gwine tell Miss Duplan dis yere ver' minute."

"Oh Betsy," entreated Ninette, "I'll give you this dress if you don't. I don't want it any more."

Betsy's eyes glowed, but she looked down unconcernedly at the pretty gown.

"Don't spec it fit me. An' you know Miss T'rese ain't gwine let me go flyin' roun' wid my laigs stickin' out dat away."

"I'll let the ruffle down, Betsy," eagerly proposed Ninette.

"Betsy!" called Therese a little impatiently.

"Yas, 'um—I ben waitin' fu' de cups."

Lucilla had made many an aspiration—many an "act" the while. This whole evening of revelry, and now this last act of wicked conspiracy seemed to have tainted her soul with a breath of sin which she would not feel wholly freed from, till she had cleansed her spirit in the waters of absolution.

The party broke up at a late hour, though the Duplans had a long distance to go, and, moreover, had to cross the high and turbid river to reach their carriage which had been left on the opposite bank, owing to the difficulty of the crossing.

Mr. Duplan took occasion of a moment aside to whisper to Hosmer with the air of a connoisseur, "fine woman that Mrs. Worthington of yours."

Hosmer laughed at the jesting implication, whilst disclaiming it, and Fanny looked moodily at them both, jealously wondering at the cause of their good humor.

Mrs. Duplan, under the influence of a charming evening passed in such agreeable and distinguished company, was full of amiable bustle in leaving and had many pleasant parting words to say to each, in her pretty broken English.

"Oh, yes, ma'am," said Mrs. Worthington to that lady, who had taken admiring notice of the beautiful silver "Holy Angels" medal that hung from Lucilla's neck and rested against the dark gown. "Lucilla takes after Mr. Worthington as far as religion goes—kind of different though, for I must say it ain't often he darkens the doors of a church."

Mrs. Worthington always spoke of her husband present as of a husband absent. A peculiarity which he patiently endured, having no talent for repartee, that he had at one time thought of cultivating. But that time was long past.

The Duplans were the first to leave. Then Therese stood for a while on the veranda in the chill night air watching the others disappear across the lawn. Mr. and Mrs. Worthington and Lucilla had all shaken hands with her in saying good night. Fanny followed suit limply and grudgingly. Hosmer buttoned his coat impatiently and only lifted his hat to Therese as he helped his wife down the stairs.

Poor Fanny! she had already taken exception at that hand pressure which was to come and for which she watched, and now her whole small being was in a jealous turmoil—because there had been none.



XII

Tidings That Sting.

Therese felt that the room was growing oppressive. She had been sitting all morning alone before the fire, passing in review a great heap of household linen that lay piled beside her on the floor, alternating this occupation with occasional careful and tender offices bestowed upon a wee lamb that had been brought to her some hours before, and that now lay wounded and half lifeless upon a pile of coffee sacks before the blaze.

A fire was hardly needed, except to dispel the dampness that had even made its insistent way indoors, covering walls and furniture with a clammy film. Outside, the moisture was dripping from the glistening magnolia leaves and from the pointed polished leaves of the live-oaks, and the sun that had come out with intense suddenness was drawing it steaming from the shingled roof-tops.

When Therese, finally aware of the closeness of the room, opened the door and went out on the veranda, she saw a man, a stranger, riding towards the house and she stood to await his approach. He belonged to what is rather indiscriminately known in that section of the State as the "piney-woods" genus. A rawboned fellow, lank and long of leg; as ungroomed with his scraggy yellow hair and beard as the scrubby little Texas pony which he rode. His big soft felt hat had done unreasonable service as a head-piece; and the "store clothes" that hung upon his lean person could never in their remotest freshness have masqueraded under the character of "all wool." He was in transit, as the bulging saddle-bags that hung across his horse indicated, as well as the rough brown blanket strapped behind him to the animal's back. He rode up close to the rail of the veranda near which Therese stood, and nodded to her without offering to raise or touch his hat. She was prepared for the drawl with which he addressed her, and even guessed at what his first words would be.

"You're Mrs. Laferm I 'low?"

Therese acknowledged her identity with a bow.

"My name's Jimson; Rufe Jimson," he went on, settling himself on the pony and folding his long knotty hands over the hickory switch that he carried in guise of whip.

"Do you wish to speak to me? won't you dismount?" Therese asked.

"I hed my dinner down to the store," he said taking her proposal as an invitation to dine, and turning to expectorate a mouth full of tobacco juice before continuing. "Capital sardines them air," passing his hand over his mouth and beard in unctuous remembrance of the oily dainties.

"I'm just from Cornstalk, Texas, on mu way to Grant. An' them roads as I've traversed isn't what I'd call the best in a fair and square talk."

His manner bore not the slightest mark of deference. He spoke to Therese as he might have spoken to one of her black servants, or as he would have addressed a princess of royal blood if fate had ever brought him into such unlikely contact, so clearly was the sense of human equality native to him.

Therese knew her animal, and waited patiently for his business to unfold itself.

"I reckon thar hain't no ford hereabouts?" he asked, looking at her with a certain challenge.

"Oh, no; its even difficult crossing in the flat," she answered.

"Wall, I hed calc'lated continooing on this near side. Reckon I could make it?" challenging her again to an answer.

"There's no road on this side," she said, turning away to fasten more securely the escaped branches of a rose-bush that twined about a column near which she stood.

Whether there were a road on this side or on the other side, or no road at all, appeared to be matter of equal indifference to Mr. Jimson, so far as his manner showed. He continued imperturbably "I 'lowed to stop here on a little matter o' business. 'Tis some out o' mu way; more'n I'd calc'lated. You couldn't tell the ixact distance from here to Colfax, could you?"

Therese rather impatiently gave him the desired information, and begged that he would disclose his business with her.

"Wall," he said, "onpleasant news 'll keep most times tell you're ready fur it. Thet's my way o' lookin' at it."

"Unpleasant news for me?" she inquired, startled from her indifference and listlessness.

"Rather onpleasant ez I take it. I hain't a makin' no misstatement to persume thet Gregor Sanchun was your nephew?"

"Yes, yes," responded Therese, now thoroughly alarmed, and approaching as close to Mr. Rufe Jimson as the dividing rail would permit, "What of him, please?"

He turned again to discharge an accumulation of tobacco juice into a thick border of violets, and resumed.

"You see a hot-blooded young feller, ez wouldn't take no more 'an give no odds, stranger or no stranger in the town, he couldn't ixpect civil treatment; leastways not from Colonel Bill Klayton. Ez I said to Tozier—"

"Please tell me as quickly as possible what has happened," demanded Therese with trembling eagerness; steadying herself with both hands on the railing before her.

"You see it all riz out o' a little altercation 'twixt him and Colonel Klayton in the colonel's store. Some says he'd ben drinkin'; others denies it. Howsomever they did hev words risin' out o' the colonel addressing your nephew under the title o' 'Frenchy'; which most takes ez a insufficient cause for rilin'."

"He's dead?" gasped Therese, looking at the dispassionate Texan with horrified eyes.

"Wall, yes," an admission which he seemed not yet willing to leave unqualified; for he went on "It don't do to alluz speak out open an' above boards, leastways not thar in Cornstalk. But I'll 'low to you, it's my opinion the colonel acted hasty. It's true 'nough, the young feller hed drawed, but ez I said to Tozier, thet's no reason to persume it was his intention to use his gun."

So Gregoire was dead. She understood it all now. The manner of his death was plain to her as if she had seen it, out there in some disorderly settlement. Killed by the hand of a stranger with whom perhaps the taking of a man's life counted as little as it had once counted with his victim. This flood of sudden and painful intelligence staggered her, and leaning against the column she covered her eyes with both hands, for a while forgetting the presence of the man who had brought the sad tidings.

But he had never ceased his monotonous unwinding. "Thar hain't no manner o' doubt, marm," he was saying, "thet he did hev the sympathy o' the intire community—ez far ez they was free to express it—barrin' a few. Fur he was a likely young chap, that warn't no two opinions o' that. Free with his money—alluz ready to set up fur a friend. Here's a bit o' writin' thet'll larn you more o' the pertic'lars," drawing a letter from his pocket, "writ by the Catholic priest, by name of O'Dowd. He 'lowed you mought want proyer meetin's and sich."

"Masses," corrected Therese, holding out her hand for the letter. With the other hand she was wiping away the tears that had gathered thick in her eyes.

"Thar's a couple more little tricks thet he sont," continued Rufe Jimson, apparently dislocating his joints to reach the depths of his trouser pocket, from which he drew a battered pocket book wrapped around with an infinity of string. From the grimy folds of this receptacle he took a small paper parcel which he placed in her hand. It was partly unfastened, and as she opened it fully, the pent-up tears came blindingly—for before her lay a few curling rings of soft brown hair, and a pair of scapulars, one of which was pierced by a tell-tale bullet hole.

"Won't you dismount?" she presently asked again, this time a little more kindly.

"No, marm," said the Texan, jerking his hitherto patient pony by the bridle till it performed feats of which an impartial observer could scarcely have suspected it.

"Don't reckon I could make Colfax before dark, do you?"

"Hardly," she said, turning away, "I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Jimson, for having taken this trouble—if the flat is on the other side, you need only call for it."

"Wall, good day, marm—I wish you luck," he added, with a touch of gallantry which her tears and sweet feminine presence had inspired. Then turning, he loped his horse rapidly forward, leaning well back in the saddle and his elbows sawing the air.



XIII

Melicent Hears the News.

It was talked about and wept about at Place-du-Bois, that Gregoire should be dead. It seemed to them all so unbelievable. Yet, whatever hesitancy they had in accepting the fact of his death, was perforce removed by the convincing proof of Father O'Dowd's letter.

None could remember but sweetness and kindness of him. Even Nathan, who had been one day felled to earth by a crowbar in Gregoire's hand, had come himself to look at that deed as not altogether blamable in light of the provocation that had called it forth.

Fanny remembered those bouquets which had been daily offered to her forlornness at her arrival; and the conversations in which they had understood each other so well. The conviction that he was gone away beyond the possibility of knowing him further, moved her to tears. Hosmer, too, was grieved and shocked, without being able to view the event in the light of a calamity.

No one was left unmoved by the tidings which brought a lowering cloud even upon the brow of Aunt Belindy, to rest there the whole day. Deep were the mutterings she hurled at a fate that could have been so short-sighted as to remove from earth so bright an ornament as Gregoire. Her grief further spent much of itself upon the inoffensive Betsy, who, for some inscrutable reason was for twenty-four hours debarred entrance to the kitchen.

Therese seated at her desk, devoted a morning to the writing of letters, acquainting various members of the family with the unhappy intelligence. She wrote first to Madame Santien, living now her lazy life in Paris, with eyes closed to the duties that lay before her and heart choked up with an egoism that withered even the mother instincts. It was very difficult to withhold the reproach which she felt inclined to deal her; hard to refrain from upbraiding a selfishness which for a life-time had appeared to Therese as criminal.

It was a matter less nice, less difficult, to write to the brothers—one up on the Red River plantation living as best he could; the other idling on the New Orleans streets. But it was after all a short and simple story to tell. There was no lingering illness to describe; no moment even of consciousness in which harrowing last words were to be gathered and recorded. Only a hot senseless quarrel to be told about; the speeding of a bullet with very sure aim, and—quick death.

Of course, masses must be said. Father O'Dowd was properly instructed. Pere Antoine in Centerville was addressed on the subject. The Bishop of Natchitoches, respectfully asked to perform this last sad office for the departed soul. And the good old priest and friend at the New Orleans Cathedral, was informed of her desires. Not that Therese held very strongly to this saying of masses for the dead; but it had been a custom holding for generations in the family and which she was not disposed to abandon now, even if she had thought of it.

The last letter was sent to Melicent. Therese made it purposely short and pointed, with a bare statement of facts—a dry, unemotional telling, that sounded heartless when she read it over; but she let it go.

* * * * *

Melicent was standing in her small, quaint sitting-room, her back to the fire, and her hands clasped behind her. How handsome was this Melicent! Pouting now, and with eyes half covered by the dark shaded lids, as they gazed moodily out at the wild snowflakes that were hurrying like crazy things against the warm window pane and meeting their end there. A loose tea-gown clung in long folds about her. A dull colored thing, save for the two broad bands of sapphire plush hanging straight before, from throat to toe. Melicent was plainly dejected; not troubled, nor sad, only dejected, and very much bored; a condition that had made her yawn several times while she looked at the falling snow.

She was philosophizing a little. Wondering if the world this morning were really the unpleasant place that it appeared, or if these conditions of unpleasantness lay not rather within her own mental vision; a train of thought that might be supposed to have furnished her some degree of entertainment had she continued in its pursuit. But she chose rather to dwell on her causes of unhappiness, and thus convince herself that that unhappiness was indeed outside of her and around her and not by any possibility to be avoided or circumvented. There lay now a letter in her desk from David, filled with admonitions if not reproof which she felt to be not entirely unjust, on the disagreeable subject of Expenses. Looking around the pretty room she conceded to herself that here had been temptations which she could not reasonably have been expected to withstand. The temptation to lodge herself in this charming little flat; furnish it after her own liking; and install that delightful little old poverty-stricken English woman as keeper of Proprieties, with her irresistible white starched caps and her altogether delightful way of inquiring daily after that "poor, dear, kind Mr. Hosmer." It had all cost a little more than she had foreseen. But the worst of it, the very worst of it was, that she had already begun to ask herself if, for instance, it were not very irritating to see every day, that same branching palm, posing by the window, in that same yellow jardiniere. If those draperies that confronted her were not becoming positively offensive in the monotony of their solemn folds. If the cuteness and quaintness of the poverty-stricken little English woman were not after all a source of entertainment that she would willingly forego on occasion. The answer to these questions was a sigh that ended in another yawn.

Then Melicent threw herself into a low easy chair by the table, took up her visiting book, and bending lazily with her arms resting on her knees, began to turn over its pages. The names which she saw there recalled to her mind an entertainment at which she had assisted on the previous afternoon. A progressive euchre party; and the remembrance of what she had there endured now filled her soul with horror.

She thought of those hundred cackling women—of course women are never cackling, it was Melicent's exaggerated way of expressing herself—packed into those small overheated rooms, around those twenty-five little tables; and how by no chance had she once found herself with a congenial set. And how that Mrs. Van Wycke had cheated! It was plain to Melicent that she had taken advantage of having fat Miss Bloomdale for a partner, who went to euchre parties only to show her hands and rings. And little Mrs. Brinke playing against her. Little Mrs. Brinke! A woman who only the other day had read an original paper entitled: "An Hour with Hegel" before her philosophy class; who had published that dry mystical affair "Light on the Inscrutable in Dante." How could such a one by any possibility be supposed to observe the disgusting action of Mrs. Van Wycke in throwing off on her partner's trump and swooping down on the last trick with her right bower? Melicent would have thought it beneath her to more than look her contempt as Mrs. Van Wycke rose with a triumphant laugh to take her place at a higher table, dragging the plastic Bloomdale with her. But she did mutter to herself now, "nasty thief."

"Johannah," Melicent called to her maid who sat sewing in the next room.

"Yes, Miss."

"You know Mrs. Van Wycke?"

"Mrs. Van Wycke, Miss? the lady with the pinted nose that I caught a-feeling of the curtains?"

"Yes, when she calls again I'm not at home. Do you understand? not at home."

"Yes, Miss."

It was gratifying enough to have thus summarily disposed of Mrs. Van Wycke; but it was a source of entertainment which was soon ended. Melicent continued to turn over the pages of her visiting book during which employment she came to the conclusion that these people whom she frequented were all very tiresome. All, all of them, except Miss Drake who had been absent in Europe for the past six months. Perhaps Mrs. Manning too, who was so seldom at home when Melicent called. Who when at home, usually rushed down with her bonnet on, breathless with "I can only spare you a moment, dear. It's very sweet of you to come." She was always just going to the "Home" where things had got into such a muddle whilst she was away for a week. Or it was that "Hospital" meeting where she thought certain members were secretly conniving at her removal from the presidency which she had held for so many years. She was always reading minutes at assemblages which Melicent knew nothing about; or introducing distinguished guests to Guild room meetings. Altogether Melicent saw very little of Mrs. Manning.