Beforethesummerhadfairlybegun，strangerumoursbegantofloataboutinmusicalcircles。M。Maugewouldnolongermanagetheopera，butitwouldbeturnedintothehandsofAmericans，asyndicate。Bah!TheseEnglish—speakingpeoplecoulddonothingunlesstherewasatrust，asyndicate，acompanyimmenseanddishonest。Itwasgoingtobeaguaranteebusiness，withastrictlyfinancialbasis。Butworsethanallthis，thenewmanager，whowasnowinFrance，wouldnotonlyprocuretheartists，butaneworchestra，anewleader。M’sieuFortiergrewapprehensiveatthis，forheknewwhatthelossofhisplacewouldmeantohim。
SeptemberandOctobercame，andthepaperswerefilledwithaccountsofthenewartistsfromFranceandoftheneworchestraleadertoo。Hewasdescribedasamosttalented，progressive，energeticyoungman。M’sieuFortier’sheartsankattheword"progressive。"Hewasanythingbutthat。TheNewOrleansCreolebloodflowedtoosluggishlyinhisoldveins。
Novembercame；theoperareopened。M’sieuFortierwasnotre—engaged。
"Minesse，"hesaidwithacatchinhisvoicethatstronglyresembledasob，"Minesse，wemus’gohongrysometime。Ah，monpauvreviolon!Ah，monDieu，deyputush’out，an’deywillnothaveus。Nev’min’，wewillsinganyhow。"Anddrawinghisbowacrossthestrings，hesanginhisthin，quaveringvoice，"Salutdemeure，chasteetpure。"
Itisstrangewhatapeculiarpoweroffascinationformerhauntshaveforthehumanmind。Thecriminal，afterhehasfledfromjustice，stealsbackandskulksaboutthesceneofhiscrime；theemployeethrownfromworkhangsabouttheplaceofhisformerindustry；theschoolboy，truantorexpelled，peepsinattheschool—gateandtauntsthegoodboyswithin。M’sieuFortierwasnoexception。Nightafternightoftheperformancesheclimbedthestairsoftheoperaandsat，anattentivelistenertotheorchestra，withoneearinclinedtothestage，andaquizzicalexpressiononhiswrinkledface。Thenhewouldgohome，andpatMinesse，andfondletheviolin。
"Ah，Minesse，dosenewplayer!Notonebitcandeyplay。Suchtones，Minesse，suchtones!Allthetimeportemento，oh，sover’
bad!Ah，monchereviolon，wecanplay。"Andhewouldplayandsingaromance，andsmiletenderlytohimself。
AtfirstitusedtobeintothedeuxiemesthatM’sieuFortierwent，intothefrontseats。Butsoontheyweretooexpensive，andafterall，onecouldhearjustaswellinthefourthrowasinthefirst。Afterawhileeventherearrowofthedeuxiemeswastoocostly，andthelittlemusicianwendedhiswaywiththeplebeiansaroundonToulouseStreet，andclimbedthelong，tediousflightofstairsintothetroisiemes。Itmakesnodifferencetobeonerowhigher。Itwasmoretotheliking，afterall。Onefeltmoreathomeuphereamongthepeople。Ifonewasthirsty，onecoulddrinkaglassofwineorbeerbeingpassedaboutbythelibrettoboys，andthemusicsoundedjustaswell。
ButithappenedonenightthatM’sieucouldnotevenaffordtoclimbtheToulouseStreetstairs。Tobesure，therewasyetanothergallery，thequatriemes，wherethepeanutboyswentforadime，butM’sieucouldnotgetdowntothatyet。Sohestayedoutsideuntilallthebeautifulwomenintheirwarmwraps，abright—huedchatteringthrong，camedownthegrandstaircasetotheircarriages。
ItwasononeofthesenightsthatCourceyandMartelfoundhimshiveringatthecorner。
"Hello，M’sieuFortier，"criedCourcey，"areyoureadytoletmehavethatviolinyet？"
"Forshame!"interruptedMartel。
"Fiftydollars，youknow，"continuedCourcey，takingnoheedofhisfriend’sinterpolation。
M’sieuFortiermadeacourtlybow。"EefMonsieurwillcallatmy’ouseondemorrow，hemayhavemonviolon，"hesaidhuskily；
thenturnedabruptlyonhisheel，andwentdownBourbonStreet，hisshouldersdrawnhighasthoughhewerecold。
WhenCourceyandMartelenteredthegateofthelittlehouseonBayouRoadthenextday，therefloatedouttotheirearsawordlesssongthrillingfromtheviolin，asongthattoldmorethanspeechortearsorgesturescouldhavedoneoftheuttersorrowanddesolationofthelittleoldman。Theywalkedsoftlyuptheshortredbrickwalkandtappedatthedoor。Within，M’sieuFortierwascaressingtheviolin，withsilenttearsstreamingdownhiswrinkledgrayface。
Therewasnotmuchsaidoneitherside。Courceycameawaywiththeinstrument，leavingthemoneybehind，whileMartelgrumbledattheessentiallysordid，mercenaryspiritoftheworld。M’sieuFortierturnedbackintotheroom，afterbowinghisvisitorsoutwithold—timeFrenchcourtliness，andturningtothesleepywhitecat，saidwithadrysob：
"Minesse，dere’sonlymean’younow。"
Aboutsixdayslater，Courcey’smorningdreamsweredisturbedbytheannouncementofavisitor。Hastilydoingatoilet，hedescendedthestairstofindM’sieuFortiernervouslypacingthehallfloor。
"Icomefo’bringbackyou’money，yaas。Icannotsleep，I
cannoteat，Ionlycry，andt’ink，andweeshfo’monviolon；andMinesse，an’deol’womantoo，deymopean’lookbadtoo，allformonviolon。Itryfo’tousedatmoney，buteetburnan’stinglakbloodmoney。Ifeellak’Idonesol’mychild。Icannotgoatl’operanomo’，It’inkofmonviolon。Istarvebefo’Ilivewidout。Myheart，heisbroke，Idieformonviolon。"
Courceylefttheroomandreturnedwiththeinstrument。
"M’sieuFortier，"hesaid，bowinglow，ashehandedthecasetothelittleman，"takeyourviolin；itwasawhimwithme，apassionwithyou。Andasforthemoney，why，keepthattoo；itwasworthahundreddollarstohavepossessedsuchaninstrumentevenforsixdays。"
BYTHEBAYOUST。JOHN
TheBayouSt。Johnslowlymakesitsdark—huedwaythroughreedsandrushes，highbanksandflatslopes，untilitcastsitselfintotheturbulentbosomofLakePontchartrain。Itisdark，likethepassionatewomenofEgypt；placid，liketheirbroadbrows；
deep，silent，liketheirsouls。Withinitsbosomarehiddenromancesandstories，suchasweresungbyminstrelsofold。
Fromthesourcetothemouthisnotfardistant，visiblyspeaking，butinthelifeofthebayouahundredheart—milescouldscarcemeasureit。Justwhereitwindsaboutthenorthwestofthecityaresomeofitsmostbeautifulbits，orangegrovesononeside，andquaintoldSpanishgardensontheother。Whocaresthatthebridgesaremodern，andthathereandtherepertboat—housesreartheirprimheads？Itisthebayou，eventhoughitbeinvadedwiththeruthlessvandalismoftheimprovingidea，andcanaboat—housekillthebeautyofamoss—growncenturionofanoakwithahistoryasoldasthecity？Cananironbridgewithtarantulapiersdetractfromthesongofamocking—birdinafragrantorangegrove？Weknowthatfartherout，pasttheConfederateSoldiers’Home，——thatrose—embowered，ramblingplaceofgray—coated，white—hairedoldmenwithbrokenheartsforalostcause，——itflows，unimpededbythefaintestconceptionofman，andweloveitallthemorethat，likethePriestessofIsis，itiscalm—browed，eveninindignity。
ToitsbanksattheendofMossStreet，onedaytherecameamanandamaiden。Theywerebothtallandlitheandslender，withtheagilityofyouthandfire。HewasthefinalconcentrationoftheessenceofSpanishpassionfilteredintoanAmericanframe；
she，arepressedSouthernexotic，tryingtofititselfintothenichesofamoderncivilisation。Truly，afittingcoupletoseekthebayoubanks。
Theyclimbedtheleveethatstretchedafeeblechecktowatersthatseldomrise，andontheothersideoftheembankment，atthebrinkoftheriver，shesatonalog，andimpatientlypulledoffthelittlecapshewore。Theskiesweregray，heavy，overcast，withanoccasionalwind—riftinthecloudsthatonlyrevealednewdepthsofgraynessbehind；thetidelesswatersmurmuredafaintrippleagainstthelogsandjuttingbeamsofthebreakwater，andwereansweredbythecrescendowailofthedriedreedsontheotherbank，——reedsthatrustledandmoanedamongthemselvesforthegoldendaysofsummersunshine。
Hestoodup，hisdarkformaslendersilhouetteagainstthesky；
shelookedupwardfromherlog，andtheireyesmetwithanexquisiteshockofrecognisingunderstanding；darkeyesintodarkeyes，IberianfireintoIberianfire，souluntosoul：itwasenough。Hesatdownandtookherintohisarms，andintheeeriemurmurofthestormcomingtheytalkedofthefuture。
"AndthenIhopetogotoItalyorFrance。Itisonlythere，beneaththosefarSouthernskies，thatIcouldeverhopetoattaintoanythingthatthesoulwithinmesaysIcan。Ihavewastedsomuchtimeinthemerestruggleforbread，whilethepowersofahighercallinghaveclamouredforrecognitionandexpression。Iwillgosomedayandredeemmyself。"
Shewassilentamoment，watchingwithhalf—closedlidsadejected—lookinghunterontheotherbank，andaleandogwhotrailedthroughthereedsbehindhimwithdroopingtail。Thensheasked：
"AndI——whatwillbecomeofme？"
"You，Athanasia？Thereisagreatfuturebeforeyou，littlewoman，andIandmylovecanonlymarit。Trytoforgetmeandgoyourway。Iamonlytheepitomeofunhappinessandill—success。"
Butshelaughedandwouldhavenoneofit。
Willyoueverforgetthatday，Athanasia？Howthelittlegamins，Creolethroughout，camehalfshylynearthelog，fishing，andexchangingfurtivewhispersandhalf—concealedglancesatthesilentcouple。Theiranglingwasrewardedonlybyalittleblackwater—moccasinthatwriggledandforkeditsvenomousredtongueinanattempttoexerciseitsdeath—dealingprerogative。ThisAthanasiainsistedmustgobackintoitsnativeblackwaters，andpaidthepricetheboysaskedthatitmightenjoyitsfreedom。
Thegaminslaughedandchatteredintheirsoftpatois；theDonsmiledtenderlyuponAthanasia，andshedurstnotlookatthereedsasshetalked，lesttheircrescendosadnessyieldaforeboding。Justthenaweegirlappeared，cladinamulti—huedgarment，evidentlyasistertothesmallfishermen。Herkeenblackeyessetinaduskyfaceglancedsharplyandsuspiciouslyatthegroupassheclamberedoverthewetembankment，anditseemedthedrizzlingmistgrewcolder，thesobbingwindmorepronouncedinitspropheticwail。Athanasiarosesuddenly。"Letusgo，"shesaid；"theeternalfemininehasspoileditall。"
Thebayouflowsascalmly，asdarkly，asfullofhiddenpassionsasever。Onanightyearsafter，themoonwasshininguponitwithasilverytendernessthatseemedbrighter，morecaressinglylingeringthananywherewithintheoldcity。Behind，thererosethespiresandtowers；before，onlythereeds，greennow，andsoftintheirrustlingsandwhisperingsforthefuture。Falsereeds!Theytellthemselvesoftheirhappinesstobe，anditallendsindrystalksanddrizzlingskies。Themocking—birdinthefragrantorangegrovesendsouthisnightsong，andblendsitwiththecricket’schirp，astheblossomsoforangeandmagnoliamingletheirperfumewiththeearthysmellofasummerrainjustblownover。Perfectinitsstillness，absoluteinitsbeauty，tenderlyhealinginitssuggestionofpeace，thenightinitsclear—lighted，cloudlesssweetnessenfoldsAthanasia，asshestandsontheleveeandgazesdownattheoldlog，nowalmosthiddenintheluxuriantgrass。
"Itwastheeternalfemininethatspoiledourdreamthatdayasitspoiledtheafterlife，wasitnot？"
ButtheBayouSt。Johndidnotanswer。Itmerelygatheredintoitssilentbosomanotherbroken—heartedromance，andfloweddispassionatelyonitsway。
WHENTHEBAYOUOVERFLOWS
WhenthesungoesdownbehindthegreatoaksalongtheBayouTechenearFranklin，itthrowsredneedlesoflightintothedarkwoods，andleavesagreatglowonthestillbayou。Ma’amMoutonpausedathergateandcastacontemplativelookattheredsky。
"Hitwillrainto—morrow，sho’。Imus’gitinmyt’ings。"
Ma’amMouton’sremarkmusthavebeenaddressedtoherselfortotheleandog，fornooneelsewasvisible。Shemovedbrisklyabouttheyard，takingthingsfromtheline，whenLouisette’svoicecalledcheerily：
"Ah，Ma’amMouton，canIhelp？"
Louisettewaspetiteandplumpandblack—haired。Louisette’seyesdanced，andherlipswereredandtempting。Ma’amMouton’sfacerelaxedasthesmallbrownhandsrelievedhersoftheirburden。
"Sylves’，hashecomeyet？"askedtheredmouth。
"Maisnon，machere，"saidMa’amMouton，sadly，"Ican’tellfo’
w’yhenocomehomesoondeseday。Ahme，Ifeellak’somet’inggoin’happen。Hesostrange。"
Evenasshespokeaquicknervousstepwasheardcrunchingupthebrickwalk。Sylves’pausedaninstantwithoutthekitchendoor，hisfaceturnedtothesettingsun。Hewastallandslimandagile；atrue’cajan。
"Bonjour，Louisette，"helaughed。"Eh，maman!"
"Ah，myson，youarever’late。"
Sylves’frowned，butsaidnothing。Itwasasilentsupperthatfollowed。Louisettewassad，Ma’amMoutonsighednowandthen，Sylves’wasconstrained。
"Maman，"hesaidatlength，"Iamgoin’away。"
Ma’amMoutondroppedherforkandstaredathimwithunseeingeyes；then，asshecomprehendedhisremark，sheputherhandouttohimwithapitifulgesture。
"Sylves’!"criedLouisette，springingtoherfeet。
"Maman，don’t，don’t!"hesaidweakly；thengatheringstrengthfromthesilence，heburstforth：
"Yaas，I’mgoin’awaytowork。I’mtiredofdis，jus’dig，dig，workindefiel’，nothin’toseebutdecloud，detree，debayou。Idon’tlak’NewOrleans；ittoonearhere，derenomo’
moneydere。Igoupfo’MardiGras，an’desamepeople，desamestrit’。I’mgoin’toChicago!"
"Sylves’!"screamedbothwomenatonce。
Chicago!Thatvast，far—offcitythatseemedinanotherworld。
Chicago!Anametoconjurewithforwickedness。
"W’y，yaas，"continuedSylves’，"lotsofboysIknowdere。Henrian’JosephLascaudan’Arthur，deywritemewhatmoneydeymek’
incigar。Icanmek’alivin’too。Icanmek’finecigar。SeehowIdoinNewOrleansindewinter。"
"Oh，Sylves’，"wailedLouisette，"denyou’llforgetme!"
"Non，non，machere，"heansweredtenderly。"Iwillcomebackwhenthebayouoverflowsagain，an’mamanan’Louisettewillhavefinepresent。"
Ma’amMoutonhadbowedherheadonherhands，andwasrockingtoandfroinanagonyofdry—eyedmisery。
Sylves’wenttohersideandknelt。"Maman，"hesaidsoftly，"maman，youmus’notcry。Alldeboysgo’way，an’Iwillcomebackreech，an’youwon’thavefo’toworknomo’。"
ButMa’amMoutonwasinconsolable。
ItwasevenasSylves’hadsaid。Inthesummer—timetheboysoftheBayouTechewouldworkinthefieldorinthetownofFranklin，hack—drivinganddoingoddjobs。Whenwintercame，therewasageneralexodustoNewOrleans，ahundredmilesaway，whereworkwastobehadascigar—makers。Thereismoney，plentyofit，incigar—making，ifonecangetintherightplace。Oflate，however，therehadbeenageneralslacknessofthetrade。
LastwinteroftentimesSylves’hadwalkedthestreetsoutofwork。ManyweretheCreoleboyswhohadgonetoChicagotoearnaliving，forthecigar—makingtradeflourishestherewonderfully。FriendsofSylves’hadgone，andwrittenhomeglowingaccountsofthemoneytobehadalmostfortheasking。
Whenone’sbloodleapsfornewscenes，newadventures，andoneneedsmoney，whatistheuseoffritteringawaytimealternatelybetweentheBayouTecheandNewOrleans？Sylves’hadbroodedallsummer，andnowthatSeptemberhadcome，hewasdeterminedtogo。
Louisette，theorphan，thegirl—lover，whomeveryoneinFranklinknewwouldsomedaybeMa’amMouton’sdaughter—in—law，weptandpleadedinvain。Sylves’kissedherquiveringlips。
"Machere，"hewouldsay，"t’ink，Iwillbringyouonefinediamon’ring，nex’spring，whendebayouoverflowsagain。"
Louisettewouldfainbecontentwiththispromise。AsforMa’amMouton，sheseemedtohavegrownagesolder。HerSylves’wasgoingfromher；Sylves’，whosetripstoNewOrleanshadbeenayearlysourceofheart—break，wasgoingfarawayformonthstothatmistilywickedcity，athousandmilesaway。
Octobercame，andSylves’hadgone。Ma’amMoutonhadkeptupbravelyuntilthelast，whenwithonefinalcrysheextendedherarmstothepitilesstrainbearinghimnorthward。ThensheandLouisettewenthomedrearily，theoneleaningupontheother。
Ah，thatwasagreatdaywhenthefirstlettercamefromChicago!
Louisettecamerunninginbreathlesslyfromthepost—office，andtogethertheyreaditagainandagain。Chicagowassuchawonderfulcity，saidSylves’。Why，itwasalwayslikeNewOrleansatMardiGraswiththepeople。HehadseenJosephLascaud，andhehadaplacetoworkpromisedhim。Hewaswell，buthewanted，oh，somuch，toseemamanandLouisette。Butthen，hecouldwait。
Waseversuchawonderfulletter？Louisettesatforanhourafterwardsbuildinggorgeousair—castles，whileMa’amMoutonfingeredthepaperandmurmuredprayerstotheVirginforSylves’。Whenthebayouoverflowedagain？ThatwouldbeinApril。ThenLouisettecaughtherselflookingcriticallyatherslenderbrownfingers，andblushedfuriously，thoughMa’amMoutoncouldnotseeherinthegatheringtwilight。
Nextweektherewasanotherletter，evenmorewonderfulthanthefirst。Sylves’hadfoundwork。Hewasmakingcigars，andwasearningtwodollarsaday。Suchwages!Ma’amMoutonandLouisettebegantoplanprettythingsforthebrowncottageontheTeche。
Thatwasapleasantwinter，afterall。True，therewasnoSylves’，butthenhewasalwaysinNewOrleansforafewmonthsanyway。Therewerehisletters，fullofwondroustalesofthegreatqueercity，wherecarswentbyropesunderground，andwheretherewasnoMardiGrasandthepeopledidnotmindLent。Nowandthentherewouldbeapresent，akeepsakeforLouisette，andsomemoneyformaman。Theywouldplanimprovementsforthecottage，andLouisettebegantodosewinganddaintycrochet，whichshewouldhidewithablushifanyonehintedatatrousseau。
ItwasMarchnow，andSpring—time。Thebayoubegantosweepdownbetweenitsbankslesssluggishlythanbefore；itwasrising，andsoonwouldspreadoveritstinylevees。Thedoorscouldbeleftopennow，thoughthetreeswerenotyetgreen；butthendownherethetreesdonotswellandbudslowlyandteaseyouforweekswithpromisesofgreenness。Dearno，theysimplylookmysterious，andtheirtwigsshakeagainsteachotherandtellsecretsoftheleavesthatwillsoonbeborn。Thenonemorningyouawake，andlo，itisagreenworld!Theboughshavesuddenlyclothedthemselvesallinawondrousgarment，andyoufeelthebloodrunriotinyourveinsoutofpuresympathy。
OnedayinMarch，itwaswarmandsweet。Underfootwereviolets，andweewhitestarflowerspeeringthroughthebaby—grass。Theskywasblue，withflecksofwhitecloudsreflectingthemselvesinthebrownbayou。LouisettetrippeduptheredbrickwalkwiththeChicagoletterinherhand，andpausedaminuteatthedoortolookupontheleapingwaters，hereyesdancing。
"Iknowthebayoumustbereadytooverflow，"wenttheletterinthecarefullyphrasedFrenchthatthebrotherstaughtattheparochialschool，"andIamglad，forIwanttoseethedearmamanandmyLouisette。Iamnotsowell，andMonsieurledocteursaysitiswellformetogototheSouthagain。"
Monsieurledocteur!Sylves’notwell!ThethoughtstruckachilltotheheartsofMa’amMoutonandLouisette，butnotforlong。Ofcourse，Sylves’wasnotwell，heneededsomeofmaman’stisanes。Thenhewashomesick；itwastobeexpected。
Atlastthegreatdaycame，Sylves’wouldbehome。ThebrownwatersofthebayouhadspreaduntiltheywereseeminglytryingtorivaltheMississippiinwidth。Thelittlehousewasscrubbedandcleaneduntilitshoneagain。LouisettehadlookedherdaintylittledressoverandovertobesurethattherewasnotaflawtobefoundwhereinSylves’couldcompareherunfavourablytothestylishChicagogirls。
Thetrainrumbledinontheplatform，andtwopairofeyesopenedwideforthefirstglimpseofSylves’。Theporter，allofficiousnessandbrassbuttons，bustleduptoMa’amMouton。
"ThisisMrs。Mouton？"heinquireddeferentially。
Ma’amMoutonnodded，herheartsinking。"WhereisSylves’？"
"Heishere，madam。"
ThereappearedJosephLascaud，thensomemenbearingSomething。
Louisetteputherhandsuptohereyestohidethesight，butMa’amMoutonwasrigid。
"Itwastoocoldforhim，"Josephwassayingtoalmostdeafears，"andhetooktheconsumption。Hethoughthecouldgetwellwhenhecomehome。Hetalkallthewaydownaboutthebayou，andaboutyouandLouisette。Justthreehoursagohehadabadhemorrhage，andhediedfromweakness。Justthreehoursago。HesaidhewantedtogethomeandgiveLouisetteherdiamondring，whenthebayouoverflowed。"
MR。BAPTISTE
Hemighthavehadanothername；weneverknew。SomeonehadchristenedhimMr。Baptistelongagointhedimpast，anditsufficed。Noonehadeverbeenknownwhohadthetemeritytoaskhimforanothercognomen，forthoughhewasamild—manneredlittleman，hehadanuncomfortablewayofshuttingupoyster—wiseandlookingdisagreeablewhenapproachedconcerninghispersonalhistory。
Hewassmall：mostCreolemenaresmallwhentheyareold。Itisstrange，butafact。Itmustbethatagewithersthemsoonerandmoreeffectuallythanthoseofun—Latinisedextraction。Mr。
Baptistewas，furthermore，verymuchwrinkledandlame。LiketheSonofMan，hehadnowheretolayhishead，savewhensomekindlyfamilymaderoomforhiminagarretorabarn。Hesubsistedbydoingoddjobs，white—washing，cleaningyards，doingerrands，andthelike。
Thelittleoldmanwasafrequenterofthelevee。Neveradaypassedthathisquaintlittlefigurewasnotseenmovingupanddownabouttheships。ChieflydidhehaunttheTexasandPacificwarehousesandthelanding—placeoftheMorgan—linesteamships。
Thisseemedlikemadness，forthesespotsarealmostthebusiestonthelevee，andtheroughseamenand’longshoremenhaveleasttimetobebotheredwithsmallweakfolks。StilltherewasmethodinthemadnessofMr。Baptiste。TheMorgansteamships，aseveryoneknows，plybetweenNewOrleansandCentralandSouthAmericanports，doingthemajorpartofthefruittrade；andmanywerethebasketsofforgottenfruitthatMr。Baptistetookawaywithhimunmolested。Sometimes，youknow，bananasandmangoesandorangesandcitronswillhalfspoil，particularlyifithasbeenabadvoyageoverthestormyGulf，andtheofficersoftheshipswillgiveawaystacksoffruit，toogoodtogointotheriver，toobadtoselltothefruit—dealers。
YoucouldseeMr。Baptistetrudgingupthestreetwithhisquaintone—sidedwalk，bearinghisdilapidatedbasketononeshoulder，anondescripthead—coverpulledoverhiseyes，whistlingcheerily。
Thenhewouldslipinatthebackdoorofoneofhisclientswithabrisk，——
"Ah，bonjour，madame。Nowhereeesjus’alil’bitfruit，somebananas。PerhapsmadamewouldcooksomeforMr。Baptiste？"
Andmadame，whounderstoodandknewhisways，wouldfryhimsomeofthebananas，andsetitbeforehim，atemptingdish，withabitofmadame’sbreadandmeatandcoffeethrowninforlagniappe；andMr。Baptistewoulddepart，filledandcontented，leavingtheloadoffruitbehindasmadame’spay。Thusdidheeat，andhisclientsweremany，andnevertootiredortoocrosstocookhismealsandgettheirpayinbasketsoffruit。
OnedayheslippedinatMadameGarcia’skitchendoorwithsuchawoe—begoneair，andslidasmallsackofnearlyripeplantainsonthetablewithsuchamisery—ladensigh，thatmadame，whowasfatandexcitable，threwupbothhandsandcriedout：
"MonDieu，MistareBaptiste，fo’w’yyoulooklakdat？Whateesdemattare？"
Foranswer，Mr。Baptisteshookhisheadgloomilyandsighedagain。MadameGarciamovedheavilyaboutthekitchen，puttingtheplantainsinacoolspotandpunctuatingherfoot—stepswithsundry"MonDieux"and"Miseres。"
"Dosecotton!"ejaculatedMr。Baptiste，atlast。
"Ah，monDieu!"groanedMadameGarcia，rollinghereyesheavenwards。
"Hitwilldrivedefruitaway!"hecontinued。
"Misere!"saidMadameGarcia"Hitwill。"
"Oui，out，"saidMadameGarcia。Shehadcarefullyinspectedtheplantains，andseeingthattheyweregoodandwholesome，wasinclinedtoagreewithanythingMr。Baptistesaid。
Hegrewexcited。"Yaas，dosecotton—yardmans，dose’longsho’mans，deygooutononestrik’。Deyt’rowdowndeytoolan’saydeyworknomo’widniggers。Lesveseaux，deylayinderiver，nowork，nocargo，yaas。Dendefruitship，deycan’mak’
lan’，demans，deyt’reatenan’sayt’ings。Deymak’bigfight，yaas。Derenomo’workondelevee，lakdat。Ever’bodyjus’
walkroun’an’saycussword，yaas!"
"Oh，monDieu，monDieu!"groanedMadameGarcia，rockingherguinea—blue—cladselftoandfro。
Mr。Baptistepickeduphisnondescripthead—coverandwalkedoutthroughthebrick—reddenedalley，talkingexcitedlytohimself。
MadameGarciacalledafterhimtoknowifhedidnotwanthisluncheon，butheshookhisheadandpassedon。
DownontheleveeitwasevenasMr。Baptistehadsaid。The’long—shoremen，thecotton—yardmen，andthestevedoreshadgoneoutonastrike。Theleveelayhotandunshelteredundertheglareofanoondaysun。TheturgidMississippiscarceseemedtoflow，butgaveforthabrazengleamfromitsyellowbosom。Greatvesselslayagainstthewharf，silentandunpopulated。Excitedgroupsofmenclusteredhereandthereamongbalesofuncompressedcotton，lyingaboutindisorderlyprofusion。
Cargoesofmolassesandsugargaveoutastickysweetsmell，andnowandthenthefierceraysofthesunwouldkindletinyblazesinthecottonandsplinter—mixeddustunderfoot。
Mr。Baptistewanderedinandoutamongthegroupsofmen，exchangingafriendlysalutationhereandthere。Helookedthepictureofwoe—begonemisery。
"Hello，Mr。Baptiste，"criedabig，brawnyIrishman，"surean’
youlook，asifyouwasabouttobehanged。"
"Ah，monDieu，"saidMr。Baptiste，"dosefruitshipberuinedfo’
deesstrik’。"
"Damnthefruit!"cheerilyrepliedtheIrishman，artisticallydisposingofamouthfuloftobaccojuice。"Itain’tthefruitwecareabout，it’sthecotton。"
"Hear!hear!"criedadozenlustycomrades。
Mr。Baptisteshookhisheadandmovedsorrowfullyaway。
"Hey，byhowlySt。Patrick，here’sthatlittlefruit—eater!"
calledthecentreofanothergroupofstrikersperchedoncotton—bales。
"Hello!Where——"beganasecond；buttheleadersuddenlyhelduphishandforsilence，andthemenlistenedeagerly。
Itmightnothavebeenasound，fortheleveelayquietandthemulesonthecotton—draysdozedlanguidly，theirearspitchedatvaryingacuteangles。Butthepracticedearsofthemenheardafamiliarsoundstealingupovertheheatedstillness。
"Oh——ho——ho——humph——humph——humph——ho——ho——ho——oh——o——o——humph!"
Thenthefaintrattleofchains，andthesteadythumpofamachinepounding。
Ifeveryougoontheleveeyou’llknowthatsound，therhythmicsongofthestevedoresheavingcotton—bales，andthesteadythump，thump，ofthemachinecompressingthemwithintheholdoftheship。
Finnegan，theleader，whohadhelduphishandforsilence，utteredanoath。
"Scabs!Men，comeon!"
Therewasnoneedforafurtherinvitation。Themenroseinsullenwrathandwentdownthelevee，thecrowdgatheringinnumbersasitpassedalong。Mr。Baptistefollowedinitswake，nowandthensighingamournfulprotestwhichwaslostintheroarofthemen。
"Scabs!"Finneganhadsaid；andthewordwaspassedalong，untilitseemedthatthehalfofthesecondDistrictknewandhadrisentoinvestigate。
"Oh——ho——ho——humph——humph——humph——oh——ho——ho——oh——o——o——humph!"
Therhythmicchorussoundednearer，andthecausemanifesteditselfwhenthecurveoftheleveeabovetheFrenchMarketwaspassed。ThereroseaWhiteStarsteamer，insolentlysettlingitselftothewateraseachconsignmentofcottonbaleswascompressedintoherhold。
"Niggers!"roaredFinneganwrathily。
"Niggers!niggers!Kill’em，scabs!"chorusedthecrowd。
Withmusclesstandingoutlikecablesthroughtheirbluecottonshirts，andsweatrollingfromglossyblackskins，theNegrostevedoreswereatworksteadilylabouringatthecotton，withtherhythmicsongswingingitscadenceinthehotair。Theroarofthecrowdcausedthementolookupwithmomentaryapprehension，butattheover—seer’sreassuringwordtheybentbacktowork。
FinneganwasaTitan。WithlividfaceandburstingveinsheranintothestreetfacingtheFrenchMarket，anduprootedahugeblockofpavingstone。Staggeringunderitsweight，herushedbacktotheship，andwithonemightyefforthurleditintothehold。
Thedelicatepolesofthecostlymachinetotteredintheair，thenfellforwardwithacrashasthewholeironframeworkintheholdcollapsed。
"Damnye，"shoutedFinnegan，"nowyezcanpackyercotton!"
Thecrowd’scheersatthischangedtohowls，astheNegroes，infuriatedattheirloss，forthosecostlymachinesbelongtothelabourersandnottotheship—owners，turneduponthemobandbegantothrowbrickbats，piecesofiron，chunksofwood，anythingthatcametohand。Itwaspandemoniumturnedlooseoveraturgidstream，withamalarialsuntoheatthepassionstofeverpoint。
Mr。Baptistehadtakenrefugebehindabread—stallontheoutsideofthemarket。Hehadtakenoffhiscap，andwasweaklycheeringtheNegroeson。
"Bravo!"cheeredMr。Baptiste。
"Willyezlookatthatdamnedfruit—eatin’Frinchman!"howledMcMahon。"Cheerin’theniggers，areyou？"andheletflyabrickbatinthedirectionofthebread—stall。
"Oh，monDieu，monDieu!"wailedthebread—woman。
Mr。Baptistelayverystill，withagreatuglygashinhiswrinkledbrowntemple。Fishmenandvegetablemarchandsgatheredaroundhiminaquick，sympatheticmass。Theindividual，theconcretebitofhelplesshumanity，hadmoreinterestforthemthanthevast，vaguefightingmobbeyond。
Thenoon—hourpealedfromthebrazenthroatsofmanybells，andthenumeroushoarsewhistlesofthesteam—boatscalledtheunheededluncheon—timetotheleveeworkers。Thewarwagedfuriously，andgroansofthewoundedmingledwithcursesandroarsfromthecombatants。
"Killedinstantly，"saidthesurgeon，carefullyliftingMr。
Baptisteintotheambulance。
Tramp，tramp，tramp，soundedthemilitiasteadilymarchingdownDecaturStreet。
"Whist!doyezhear!"shoutedFinnegan；andtheconflicthadceasederetheyellowrivercouldreflectthesunfromthepolishedbayonets。
Youremember，ofcourse，howlongthestrikelasted，andhowmanybattleswerefoughtandliveslostbeforethefinaladjustmentofaffairs。Itwasafearsomewar，andmanyforgotafterwardswhosewasthefirstlifelostinthestruggle，——poorlittleMr。
Baptiste’s，whosebodylayattheMorgueunclaimedfordaysbeforeitwasfinallydroppedunnamedintoPotter’sField。
ACARNIVALJANGLE
Thereisamerryjangleofbellsintheair，anall—pervadingsenseofjester’snoise，andtheflauntingvividnessofroyalcolours。Thestreetsswarmwithhumanity，——humanityinallshapes，manners，forms，laughing，pushing，jostling，crowding，amassofmenandwomenandchildren，asvariedandassortedintheirseveralindividualpeculiaritiesaseveracrowdthatgatheredinonelocalitysincethedaysofBabel。
ItisCarnivalinNewOrleans；abrilliantTuesdayinFebruary，whentheveryairgivesforthanozoneintenselyexhilarating，makingonelongtocutcapers。Thebuildingsareablazingmassofroyalpurpleandgoldenyellow，nationalflags，bunting，anddecorationsthatlaughintheglintoftheMidassun。Thestreetsareacrushofjestersandmaskers，JimCrowsandclowns，balletgirlsandMephistos，Indiansandmonkeys；ofwildandsuddenflashesofmusic，ofglitteringpageantsandcomicones，ofbefeatheredandbelledhorses；adreamofcolourandmelodyandfantasygonewildinaneffervescentbubbleofbeautythatshiftsandchangesandpasseskaleidoscope—likebeforethebewilderedeye。
Abevyofbright—eyedgirlsandboysofthatuncertainagethathoversbetweenchildhoodandmaturity，weremovingdownCanalStreetwhentherewasasuddenjostlewithanothercrowdmeetingthem。Foraminutetherewasadeafeningclamourofshoutsandlaughter，crackingofthewhips，whichallmaskerscarry，ajingleandclatterofcarnivalbells，andthemaskedandunmaskedextricatedthemselvesandmovedfromeachother’spaths。ButintheconfusionatallPrinceofDarknesshadwhisperedtooneofthegirlsintheunmaskedcrowd："You’dbettercomewithus，Flo；
you’rewastingtimeinthattamegang。Slipoff，they’llnevermissyou；we’llgetyouarig，andshowyouwhatlifeis。"
Andsoithappened，whenahalf—hourpassed，andthebright—eyedbevymissedFloandcouldn’tfindher，wiselygivingupthesearchatlast，she，thequietestandmostbashfulofthelot，wasbeinginitiatedintothemysteriesof"whatlifeis。"
DownBourbonStreetandonToulouseandSt。PeterStreetstherearequaintlittleold—worldplaceswhereonemaybedisguisedeffectuallyforatinyconsideration。Thither，guidedbytheshapelyMephistoandguardedbytheteamofjockeysandballetgirls，trippedFlo。Intooneofthelowest—ceiled，dingiest，andmostancient—lookingoftheseshopstheystepped。
"Adisguiseforthedemoiselle，"announcedMephistotothewomanwhometthem。Shewassmallandwizenedandold，withyellow，flabbyjaws，anecklikethethroatofanalligator，andstraight，whitehairthatstoodfromherheaduncannilystiff。
"Butthedemoisellewishestoappearaboy，unpetitgarcon？"sheinquired，gazingeagerlyatFlo’slong，slenderframe。Hervoicewasoldandthin，likethehighquaveringofanimperfecttuning—fork，andhereyesweresharpastalonsintheirgraspingglance。
"Mademoiselledoesnotwishsuchacostume，"grufflyrespondedMephisto。
"Mafoi，thereisnoother，"saidtheancient，shrugginghershoulders。"Butoneisleftnow；mademoisellewouldmakeafinetroubadour。"
"Flo，"saidMephisto，"it’sadare—devilscheme，tryit；noonewilleverknowitbutus，andwe’lldiebeforewetell。Besides，wemust；it’slate，andyoucouldn’tfindyourcrowd。"
AndthatwaswhyyoumighthaveseenaMephistoandaslendertroubadouroflovelyform，withmandolinflungacrosshisshoulder，followedbyabevyofjockeysandballetgirls，laughingandsingingastheysweptdownRampartStreet。
WhentheflashandglareandbrilliancyofCanalStreethavepalleduponthetiredeye，whenitisyettoosoontogohometosuchaprosaicthingasdinner，andonestillwishesfornovelty，thenitiswisetogointothelowerdistricts。Thereisfantasyandfancyandgrotesquenessrunwildinthecostumingandthebehaviourofthemaskers。SuchdancesandwhoopsandleapsasthesehideousIndiansanddevilsdoindulgein；suchwildcurvetingsandlongwalks!Intheopensquares，wherewholegroupsdocongregate，itiswonderfullyamusing。Then，too，thereisaballineveryavailablehall，adeliriousball，whereonemaydancealldayfortencents；danceandgrowmadforjoy，andneverknowwhowereyourcompanions，andbeyourselfunknown。
Andintheexhilarationoftheday，onewalksmilesandmiles，anddancesandskips，andthefatigueisneverfelt。
InWashingtonSquare，awaydownwhereRoyalStreetemptiesitsstreamofchildrengreatandsmallintothebroadchannelofElysianFieldsAvenue，therewasaperfectIndianpow—wow。Withalittleimaginationonemighthavewilledawaythevisionofthesurroundinghouses，andfanciedone’sselfagainintheforest，wherethenativeswereholdingasacredriot。Thesquarewasfilledwithspectators，maskedandun—masked。ItwasamusingtowatchthesemimicRed—men，theyseemedsofierceandearnest。
Suddenlyonechieftouchedanotherontheelbow。"SeethatMephistoandtroubadouroverthere？"hewhisperedhuskily。
"Yes；whoarethey？"
"Idon’tknowthedevil，"respondedtheother，quietly，"butI’dknowthatotherformanywhere。It’sLeon，see？Iknowthosewhitehandslikeawoman’sandthatrestlesshead。Ha!"
"Buttheremaybeamistake。"
"No。I’dknowthatoneanywhere；Ifeelitishe。I’llpayhimnow。Ah，sweetheart，you’vewaitedlong，butyoushallfeastnow!"Hewascaressingsomethinglongandlitheandglitteringbeneathhisblanket。
Inamaskeddanceitiseasytogiveadeath—blowbetweentheshoulders。Twocrowdsmeetandlaughandshoutandminglealmostinextricably，andifashriekofpainshouldarise，itisnotnoticedinthedin，andwhentheypart，ifoneshouldstaggerandfallbleedingtotheground，cananyonetellwhohasgiventheblow？Thereisnothingbutanunknownstilettoontheground，thecrowdhasdispersed，andmaskstellnotalesanyway。Thereismurder，butbywhom？forwhat？Quiensabe？
AndthatishowithappenedonCarnivalnight，inthelastmadmomentsofRex’sreign，abroken—heartedmothersatgazingwide—eyedandmuteatahorriblesomethingthatlayacrossthebed。Outsidethelongsweetmarchmusicofmanybandsfloatedinasifinmockery，andtheflashofrocketsandBengallightsilluminedthedead，whitefaceofthegirltroubadour。
LITTLEMISSSOPHIE
WhenMissSophieknewconsciousnessagain，thelong，faint，swellingnotesoftheorganweredyingawayindistantechoesthroughthegreatarchesofthesilentchurch，andshewasalone，crouchinginalittle，forsakenblackheapatthealtaroftheVirgin。Thetwinklingtapersshonepityinglyuponher，thebeneficentsmileofthewhite—robedMadonnaseemedtowhispercomfort。Alonggustofchillairsweptuptheaisles，andMissSophieshiverednotfromcold，butfromnervousness。
Butdarknesswasfalling，andsoonthelightswouldbelowered，andthegreatmassivedoorswouldbeclosed；so，gatheringherthinlittlecapeaboutherfrailshoulders，MissSophiehurriedout，andalongthebrilliantnoisystreetshome。
Itwasawretched，lonelylittleroom，wherethecrackslettheboisterouswindwhistlethrough，andthesmoky，grimywallslookedcheerlessandunhomelike。AmiserablelittleroominamiserablelittlecottageinoneofthesqualidstreetsoftheThirdDistrictthatnatureandthecityfathersseemedtohaveforgotten。
AsbareandcomfortlessastheroomwasMissSophie’slife。SherentedthesefourwallsfromanunkemptlittleCreolewoman，whoseprogenyseemedlikethepromisedoffspringofAbraham。Shescarcelykepttheflickeringlifeinherpalelittlebodybytheunceasingtoilofapairofbonyhands，stitching，stitching，ceaselessly，wearingly，onthebandsandpocketsoftrousers。Itwasherbread，thismonotonous，unendingwork；andthoughwholedaysandnightsconstantlabourbroughtbutthemostmeagrerecompense，itwasheronlyhopeoflife。
Shesatbeforethelittlecharcoalbrazierandwarmedhertransparent，needle—prickedfingers，thinkingmeanwhileofthestrangeeventsoftheday。Shehadbeenuptowntocarrythegreat，blackbundleofcoarsepantsandveststothefactoryandtoreceivehersmallpittance，andonthewayhomestoppedinattheJesuitChurchtosayherlittleprayeratthealtarofthecalmwhiteVirgin。Therehadbeenawondrousburstofmusicfromthegreatorganasshekneltthere，anoverpoweringperfumeofmanyflowers，theglitteringdazzleofmanylights，andthedaintyfrou—froumadebythesilkenskirtsofweddingguests。SoMissSophiestayedtothewedding；forwhatfeminineheart，beiteversooldandseared，doesnotdelightinone？AndwhyshouldnotapoorlittleCreoleoldmaidbeinterestedtoo？
Thentheweddingpartyhadfiledinsolemnly，totherolling，swellingtonesoftheorgan。Important—lookinggroomsmen；
dainty，fluffy，white—robedmaids；stately，satin—robed，illusion—veiledbride，andhappygroom。Sheleanedforwardtocatchabetterglimpseoftheirfaces。"Ah!"——
ThoseneartheVirgin’saltarwhoheardafaintsighandrustleonthestepsglancedcuriouslyastheysawaslightblack—robedfigureclutchtherailingandleanherheadagainstit。MissSophiehadfainted。
"Imusthavebeenhungry，"shemusedoverthecharcoalfireinherlittleroom，"Imusthavebeenhungry；"andshesmiledawansmile，andbusiedherselfgettinghereveningmealofcoffeeandbreadandham。
Ifoneweregiventopity，thefirstthoughtthatwouldrushtoone’slipsatsightofMissSophiewouldhavebeen，"Poorlittlewoman!"Shehadcomeamongthebarenessandsordidnessofthisneighbourhoodfiveyearsago，robedincrape，andcryingwithgreatsobsthatseemedtoshakethevitalityoutofher。
Perfectlysilent，too，shewasaboutherformerlife；butforallthat，Michel，thequarteegroceratthecorner，andMadameLaurent，whokepttherabbeshopopposite，hadfixeditallupbetweenthem，ofhersadhistoryandpastglories。Notthattheyknew；butthenMichelmustinventsomethingwhentheneighbourscametohimastheirfountain—headofwisdom。
OnemorninglittleMissSophieopenedwideherdingywindowstocatchtheearlyfreshnessoftheautumnwindasitwhistledthroughtheyellow—leafedtrees。Itwasoneofthosecalm，blue—misted，balmy，NovemberdaysthatNewOrleanscanhavewhenalltherestofthecountryisfur—wrapped。MissSophiepulledhermachinetothewindow，wherethesweet，dampwindcouldwhiskamongherblacklocks。
Whirr，whirr，wentthemachine，tickingfastandlightlyoverthebeltsoftheroughjeanspants。Whirr，whirr，yes，andMissSophiewasactuallyhummingatune!Shefeltstrangelylightto—day。
"Mafoi，"mutteredMichel，strollingacrossthestreettowhereMadameLaurentsatsewingbehindthecounteronblueandbrown—checkedaprons，"butthelittlema’amsellesings。Perhapssherecollects。"
"Perhaps，"mutteredtherabbewoman。
ButlittleMissSophiefeltrestless。Astrangeimpulseseemeddrawingheruptown，andthemachineseemedtorunslow，slow，beforeitwouldstitchalloftheendlessnumberofjeansbelts。
Herfingerstrembledwithnervoushasteasshepinneduptheunwieldyblackbundleoffinishedwork，andherfeetfairlytrippedovereachotherintheireagernesstogettoClaiborneStreet，whereshecouldboardtheup—towncar。Therewasafeverishdesiretogosomewhere，asenseofelation，afoolishhappinessthatbroughtafaintechoofcolourintoherpinchedcheeks。Shewonderedwhy。
Noonenoticedherinthecar。PassengersontheClaibornelinearetoomuchaccustomedtofraillittleblack—robedwomenwithbig，blackbundles；itisoneofthecity’smostpitifulsights。
SheleanedherheadoutofthewindowtocatchaglimpseoftheoleandersonBayouRoad，whenherattentionwascaughtbyaconversationinthecar。
"Yes，it’stoobadforNeale，andlatelymarriedtoo，"saidtheelderman。"Ican’tseewhatheistodo。"
Neale!Sheprickedupherears。ThatwasthenameofthegroomintheJesuitChurch。
"Howdidithappen？"languidlyinquiredtheyounger。Hewasastranger，evidently；astrangerwithahighregardforthefaultlessnessofmaleattire。
"Well，thefirmfailedfirst；hedidn’tmindthatmuch，hewassosureofhisuncle’sinheritancerepairinghislostfortunes；butsuddenlythisdifficultyofidentificationspringsup，andheisliterallyonthevergeofruin。"
"Won’tsomeofyoufellowswho’veknownhimallyourlivesdotoidentifyhim？"
"Graciousman，we’vetried；buttheabsurdoldwillexpresslystipulatesthatheshallbeknownonlybyacertainquaintRomanring，andunlesshehasit，noidentification，nofortune。Hehasgiventheringaway，andthatsettlesit。"
"Well，you’reallchumps。Whydoesn’thegettheringfromtheowner？"
"Easilysaid；but——itseemsthatNealehadsomelittleCreolelove—affairsomeyearsago，andgavethisringtohisdusky—eyedfiancee。YouknowhowNealeiswithhislove—affairs，wentoffandforgotthegirlinamonth。Itseems，however，shetookittoheart，——somuchsothathe’sashamedtotrytofindherorthering。"
MissSophieheardnomoreasshegazedoutintothedustygrass。
Thereweretearsinhereyes，hotblindingonesthatwouldn’tdropforpride，butstayedandscalded。Sheknewthestory，withallitsembellishmentofheartaches。Sheknewthering，too。
Sherememberedthedayshehadkissedandweptandfondledit，untilitseemedherheartmustburstunderitsloadofgriefbeforeshetookittothepawn—broker’sthatanothermightbeeasedbeforetheendcame，——thatotherherfather。Thelittle"Creoleloveaffair"ofNeale’shadnotalwaysbeenpoorandoldandjaded—looking；butreversesmustcome，evenNealeknewthat，sotheringwasattheMontdePiete。Stillhemusthaveit，itwashis；itwouldsavehimfromdisgraceandsufferingandfrombringingthewhite—gownedbrideintosorrow。Hemusthaveit；
buthow？
Thereitwasstillatthepawn—broker’s；noonewouldhavesuchanoddjewel，andtheticketwashomeinthebureaudrawer。
Well，hemusthaveit；shemightstarveintheattempt。Suchathingasgoingtohimandtellinghimthathemightredeemitwasanimpossibility。Thatgood，straight—backed，stiff—neckedCreolebloodwouldhaveriseninallitsstrengthandchokedher。
No；asapresenthadthequaintRomancircletbeenplaceduponherfinger，asapresentshoulditbereturned。
Thebumpingcarrodeslowly，andthehotthoughtsbeatheavilyinherpoorlittlehead。Hemusthavethering；buthow——thering——theRomanring——thewhite—robedbridestarving——shewasgoingmad——ahyes——thechurch。
Thereitwas，rightinthebusiest，mostbustlingpartofthetown，itsfrescoandbronzeandironquaintlysuggestiveofmediaevaltimes。Within，allwascoolanddimandrestful，withthefaintestwhiffoflingeringincenserisingandpervadingthegrayarches。Yes，theVirginwouldknowandhavepity；thesweet，white—robedVirginattheprettyflower—deckedaltar，ortheoneawayupintheniche，farabovethegoldendomewheretheHostwas。Titiche，thebusybodyofthehouse，noticedthatMissSophie’sbundlewaslargerthanusualthatafternoon。"Ah，poorwoman!"sighedTitiche’smother，"shewouldberichforChristmas。"
Thebundlegrewlargereachday，andMissSophiegrewsmaller。
Thedamp，coldrainandmistclosedthewhite—curtainedwindow，butalwaystherebehindthesewing—machinedroopedandbobbedthelittleblack—robedfigure。Whirr，whirrwentthewheels，andthecoarsejeanspantspiledingreatheapsatherside。TheClaiborneStreetcarsawheroftenerthanbefore，andthesweetwhiteVirginintheflowerednicheabovethegold—domedaltarsmiledatthelittlesupplicantalmosteveryday。
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