"So sweetly she bade me adieu,
I thought that she bade me return."

For three days we had been floating down the Great River, and for three days I had kept my word. Mademoiselle had not been annoyed by me; she had hardly seen me. Much to my captain's vexation, I had refused to take my meals with him and mademoiselle, though our cozy table of three had been one of the brightest parts of my dream when I was planning this trip.

It was nearing the supper-hour on the evening of this third day. The men were making ready to tie up for the night (for navigation on the river at night was a dangerous matter), and for the hundredth time I was wishing with all my heart that I had not been so rash as to make that promise to keep out of mademoiselle's way. The vision of a hot supper comfortably served in her warm and cozy cabin was of itself sufficiently enticing, as all my meals since coming aboard had been brought to me in any out-of-the-way corner of the deck, and I had found them but cold comfort. Not that my resolution was weakening, though my captain let no meal-hour pass without doing his best to weaken it, and more than once had brought me a message from mademoiselle herself begging me to join them at table. No; I was as fixed as ever, and, in a way, enjoying my own discomfort, since to pose as a martyr ever brings with it a certain satisfaction which is its own reward.

The weather had been clear and mild up to this time; but this evening an icy sleet was beginning to fall, and I glanced at mademoiselle's cabin window, brightly lighted and eloquent of warmth and dryness, and fetched a great sigh as I looked. A voice at my elbow said:

"Monsieur is sad?—or lonely, perhaps?"

I started, for I had supposed myself entirely alone on that end of the boat—the men all busy with their tying-up preparations forward, and mademoiselle and the captain in the cabin. I lifted my hat and bowed ceremoniously.

"Neither, Mademoiselle."

Mademoiselle hesitated. I saw she felt repulsed, and I secretly gloried in her embarrassment. Neither would I help her out by adding another word; I waited for what she might say further.

"Monsieur," she said presently, "you have shown me much kindness in the past, and done me great service. I would like to have you know that I am not ungrateful."

"I do not desire your gratitude, Mademoiselle," I said coldly (though it hurt me to speak so when she was so evidently trying to be friendly with me). "No gentleman could have done less, even if he were not a French gentleman."

The light from her cabin window fell full upon her. I could see that she colored quickly at my retort, and half started to go away, but turned back again.

"Monsieur," she said earnestly, "I have a very humble apology to make to you. I hope you will forgive me for my rude and wicked speech. I was beside myself with sorrow at the thought of being so suddenly torn from my friends, and for the time nothing else weighed with me, not even that you had just saved my life at the peril of your own. Ah, how could I have been so base! I wonder not that you will not even look at so mean a creature, and you do well to shun her as if she were vile."

No man could have resisted her sweet humility. For a moment all my anger melted.

"Mademoiselle, do not apologize to me!" I cried. "If there are any apologies to be made, it is I who should make them for not knowing how to understand and appreciate what you felt."

A quick radiance sprang into her eyes, and with a childlike abandon she extended both her hands to me.

"Then you forgive me?" she cried.

I took one hand and held it in both mine, and as I bent my knee I lifted it to my lips.

"If I am forgiven, my Queen," I answered softly.

Her dark eyes, tender and glorious, looked down into mine. For a moment I forgot she was a great lady in France; to me she was only the most bewitching and adorable maiden in the wide world. She was wearing a heavy capote to shield her from the weather, but the hood had fallen slightly back, and the falling sleet had spangled the little fringe of curls about her face with diamonds that sparkled in the candle-shine, but were not half so bright as her starry eyes. I could have knelt forever on the icy deck if I might have gazed forever into their heavenly depths. But in a minute she let the white lids fall over them.

"Rise, Monsieur," she said gently. "You are forgiven, but on one condition."

"Name it, my Queen!" And I rose to my feet, but still held her hand. "No condition can be too hard."

"That you come to supper with us to-night, and to every meal while I am on your boat."

The condition fetched me back to earth with a shock. I remembered all the cause, and I answered moodily:

"My word has been given, Mademoiselle; I cannot go back on my word."

"Your word was given to me, and I absolve you from it," she said.

"But in the presence of others," I objected. "I am bound by it, unless I be shamed before them."

"Only your captain is here," she said, still gently; "and he, too, urges it."

But still I was obdurate. Then at last she drew away her hand and lifted her head proudly.

"Your Queen commands you!" she said haughtily, and turned and walked away. Yet she walked but slowly. Perhaps she thought I would overtake her, or call her back and tell her I had yielded. But I was still fighting with my stubborn pride, and let her go. I watched her close her cabin door, then for five minutes I strode rapidly up and down, the slippery deck.

"Your Queen commands you!" I thrilled at her words. My Queen! Yes, but only if I were her king. Now that I was away from her, and her glowing eyes were not melting my heart to softest wax, I was resolved never again to submit to her tyranny and caprice. I would go to supper, because she commanded it; but I would never for a moment forget that she was a great lady of France, and I a proud citizen of America—too proud to woo where I could only meet with scorn.

So I went to my cabin and made a careful toilet, and when Yorke came to call me to supper, I presented myself in mademoiselle's cabin. I had not been in it since she had come aboard, and, though I had carefully planned and arranged every detail of it for her comfort, I would not have known it for the same place. What she had done to it I know not; a touch here, a touch there, such as women's fingers know how to give, and the bare and rough boat's cabin had become a dainty little boudoir. The round table, draped in snowy linen, with places set for three; the silver and glass shining in the rays from two tall candles; Yorke and mademoiselle's maid Clotilde bringing in each a smoking dish to set upon it; and mademoiselle standing beside it like the glowing heart of a ruby, her dark beauty well set off by a gown of crimson paduasoy, with rich lace through which the graceful neck and rounded arms gleamed white and soft: it all looked to me like a picture from one of Master Titian's canvases, and I could hardly believe that if I should look through the closely drawn curtains I would see the rough and dirty decks of our barge, and, beyond, the dark forest of the Illinois shore, where even now hostile savages might be lurking, ready to spring upon us with blood-curdling yells.

The captain was already there, chatting gaily with mademoiselle as I came in, and he had the delicacy to make his greeting of me as natural and unsurprised as if I had never been absent from the little board, while mademoiselle added a touch of gracious cordiality to hers.

I was on my mettle. Determined that never again, even to herself, should she call me a boy, I summoned to my aid all the savoir-faire I could command. I was (at least, in my own estimation, and I hoped also in hers) the elegant man of the world, discoursing at ease on every fashionable topic, and, to my own amazement, parrying every thrust of her keen repartee, and sometimes sending her as keen in return. I think the situation had gone to my head. Certainly I had never before thought myself a brilliant fellow, but when I rose to make my bow to mademoiselle (and it was indeed a very grand one), I hoped that even in her mind I would not suffer by comparison with any French gentleman, no, though it were the chevalier himself.

I did not see mademoiselle again until the midday meal next day; for all the morning I was busy with the men, making the difficult and dangerous turn from the Great River into the Ohio, past Fort Massac. Once in the Ohio, there was no surcease from hard work—poling, paddling, or cordelling, sometimes all three together, to climb the rushing stream.

Punctually at the noon-hour I presented myself at table, and again at supper, and my good star did not desert me. Quip and repartee and merry tale and polished phrase were all at my tongue's end, and no one could have been more amazed than I at my own brilliancy.

But I lingered not a moment after the meal was over, and I never saw mademoiselle between times. If she came out to take the air on deck, I was hard at work with the men, sometimes taking my turn at paddling, sometimes, though not often, at poling; but our crew of French Canadians were better at that than I. Indeed, there are no such fellows in the world for navigating these dangerous Western waters.

The weather had grown mild, and often in the evening I envied Yorke (who had straightway, of course, made desperate love to Clotilde, who was old enough to be his mother), sitting in the bow of the boat and thrumming his banjo lightly as he sang her some creole love-song he had picked up in St. Louis.

Our trip was fast drawing to a close. The last evening on the river had arrived. We would tie up one more night; all hands at the cordelle and the poles, we would reach Mrs. O'Fallon's by noon, in time for dinner. I had determined not to linger there at all. I should go on, the same afternoon, to my uncle's plantation, not many miles away, and the next day start for the East. I had told mademoiselle I would say good-by to her forever when we reached Mrs. O'Fallon's, but in my own mind I was saying good-by to her now. It had been for several days that I had felt the weight of this approaching hour, and my brilliance had gradually departed. I had grown duller and quieter at each succeeding meal, and mademoiselle, too, had grown quieter (she could never be dull). Sometimes I fancied she looked sad, and once I was sure I recognized the trace of tears in her beautiful eyes. There was nothing strange in that; it would have been strange indeed if she could have left home and friends, and started on a long and dangerous journey (with no companion but the faithful negro woman who had been nurse and lady's-maid and trusted friend for ten long years, but who was still but servant and slave), and had not often been overcome with sadness. Indeed, there were times, when she was merriest at the table, when I had mentally accused her of heartlessness as I thought of the two fond old people mourning for her in ÉmigrÉ's Retreat. So, though I would have liked to attribute some of mademoiselle's sadness to an approaching separation, I had no grounds for so doing, and I scoffed at myself for the attempt.

That last night at supper I made a desperate effort to be my gayest, but it was uphill work, and the more so because neither the captain nor mademoiselle seconded my efforts with any heartiness; so when supper was ended, feeling that the hour had at last come, I stood as mademoiselle rose from her seat, and instead of excusing myself at once, as had been my custom, I lingered.

"Mademoiselle," I said, "we have had our last meal aboard together (God prospering our voyage), and I desire to thank you for your courtesy, and to say to you that whatever there may have been in our intercourse during our brief acquaintance not pleasant to either of us to hold in remembrance, I hope you will banish it from your memory, as I shall from mine. I shall think of these weeks always as among the brightest of my life, and perhaps, had I been a chevalier of France instead of an American boy, I should not so easily have said good-by to the Rose of St. Louis; it would have been au revoir instead!"

I was standing as I said it all formally, with the air of one making pretty compliments: for I did not wish mademoiselle to know how every word was from the depths of my heart; nor would I have lightly betrayed myself before my captain, who was not apparently listening, but had turned to give some instructions to Yorke.

Mademoiselle's color came and went as I spoke. She did not answer me for a moment, and when she did it was in a low tone, and she seemed to speak with effort:

"Monsieur, you are ungenerous! You will never forgive my unhappy speech. Permit me to say you have taught me that a chevalier of France may be outshone by an American gentleman in bravery, manliness, truth, and honor—in every virtue except the doubtful one of knowing how to utter pleasant insincerities to us maidens. And I will not say good-by. Am I not to see you again?"

"I will certainly see you in the morning, Mademoiselle, but there may be no time for more than a word, and so I take this opportunity to say good-by."

"I will not say good-by, Monsieur"—with the old wilful toss of the head. "I will tell your captain he is not to let you go back to Philadelphia so soon. But no matter where you go, I will never say good-by; it shall always be au revoir."

She smiled up at me with such bewitching grace that perforce I smiled back at her, and if she had but asked me this evening, as she had on many others, to linger in her cozy cabin for a game of piquet, I would not have had the courage to say no. But she did not ask me, and, much as I longed to stay, there was nothing for me to do but to pick up my hat and say, with the best grace I could:

"I thank you with all my heart, Mademoiselle, and, for to-night at least, au revoir!"

An hour later my captain and I were leaning on the rail in the stern of the boat, looking up at the tree-crowned bluffs standing dark against the moonlight and listening to the soft lapping of the water against the boat's sides. We did not realize that we were hidden by a great pile of peltries, as high as our heads, which Captain Clarke was taking back to Kentucky with him to sell on commission for Pierre Chouteau, until we heard voices. Mademoiselle and Clotilde had evidently found a seat on the other side of the pile of pelts, and mademoiselle was speaking in plaintive tone:

"And they would not let me bring Leon with me! He at least would have loved me and been a companion and protector when all the world forsake me."

Then Clotilde's rich negro voice:

"Mademoiselle, I find out why they not let you bring Leon. Mr. Yorke tell me last night. Leon shot, the night before we come away."

There was a heartrending cry, and then a torrent of swift French:

"Leon shot! My Leon! Why have they not told me? Oh, the villains! Who shot him, Clotilde? My poor angel! My Leon! No one left to love your poor mistress!" And much more that I cannot recall, I was so excited and angry that that rascal Yorke should have caused her such needless pain. But every word of Clotilde's next speech was graven on my heart as with a knife of fire.

"Mr. Yorke say they all hear the shot, and they all run out to see what the matter, and there stood the lieutenant with pistol in his hand, and Yorke say he don' think he shoot him, but—"

Clotilde had no chance to say another word.

"Shoot my Leon! He! Ah, I could not have believed such baseness! He never forgave him for throwing him down-stairs! His last act before leaving ÉmigrÉ's Retreat! Oh, mon Dieu, what perfidy! What a monster!"

And every word was so interrupted with sighs and moans and sobs as would have melted a heart of stone.

As for me, I was nearly turned to stone, such horror did I feel that she should think me guilty of so base a deed. I had no thought of acting in my self-defense, but my captain started up at once with a quick exclamation, and, seizing my arm, dragged me around the pile of pelts. There was mademoiselle, seated on a low bundle of them, weeping as if her heart would break, and Clotilde trying in vain to stay the torrent she had set loose.

"Mademoiselle," said the captain, quickly, "there has been some terrible mistake. It was the chevalier who shot Leon; it was this lad" (laying his arm affectionately across my shoulders) "who saved his life."

Now half the joy of this speech to me was taken out of it by the captain's way of treating me as a boy—I think the captain never thought of me in any other light; and I made up my mind on the instant that I should seize the very first opportunity to beg him, at least in mademoiselle's presence, to treat me as a man.

But mademoiselle was so concerned with the matter of the captain's speech, she paid no heed to its manner; and it chagrined me not a little that her first thought was for Leon, and not that I was innocent.

"Saved his life!" she cried. "Is my Leon alive?"

"He is, Mademoiselle," I said coldly, "and I have every reason to believe he is doing well. My 'last act' before leaving ÉmigrÉ's Retreat was to visit him in Narcisse's cabin. I renewed his dressing, and left minute instructions as to his care. We had thought to spare you this anxiety, Mademoiselle, but two blundering servants have undone our plans."

"Ah, Monsieur," cried mademoiselle, impetuously, springing to her feet and extending both her hands to me in her pretty French fashion, "how unjust I have been to you! How can I ever thank you enough for your care of my poor Leon? Your last act in the cold and dark of the early morning, and the hurry of departure, to see that my Leon was taken care of, and I have accused you of making it one of base revenge! Ah, Monsieur, can you ever forgive me?" half whispering.

I had taken her hands and was holding them as I looked down into her radiant eyes. I bent low and kissed them both, first one and then the other, as I said (very low, so that the captain and Clotilde should not hear):

"Mademoiselle, I can forgive you everything."

But I needed not to speak so low, for when I lifted my head the captain and Clotilde had both disappeared. And whither they had gone, or why, I neither knew nor cared. For now a mad intoxication seized me. This was the last evening I should ever spend with mademoiselle in this world; why should I not enjoy it to the full? For the hundredth time we had had our misunderstanding and it had cleared away; now there should be no more misunderstandings, no more coldness, nothing but joy in the warm sunshine of her smiles.

So I begged her once more to be seated and to atone for all that was unkind in the past by letting me talk to her. There could have been no better place, outside of her cozy cabin, for this long-dreamed-of tÊte-À-tÊte, which now at last was to have a realization, than this she had herself chosen. The pile of pelts at her back kept off the east wind, the young moon in the west shone full upon her face, so that I could feast my eyes upon its glorious beauty (for the last time, I said to myself) and interpret every changing expression.

And yet, just at first, I was afraid I was going to be disappointed, after all. Mademoiselle was embarrassed and constrained, and it was I—I, the gauche and unsophisticated "boy"—who had to gently disarm her fears and lead her back to her bright and natural way. And this is how I did it. Mademoiselle had seated herself at my request, almost awkwardly, if awkwardness were possible to her, so much afraid was she she was not doing quite the proper thing.

"I cannot imagine what has become of Clotilde," she said nervously. "I did not send her away."

"I think she has gone to find Yorke and set him right about Leon," I answered, smiling.

She smiled slightly in return, but still with some embarrassment.

"Mademoiselle," I said, "have you observed that Yorke has been making himself very agreeable to Clotilde?"

"What folly!" she exclaimed. "Clotilde is an old woman. I spoke to her about it quite seriously to-day."

"And what did she say, Mademoiselle?"

"She said that she found Yorke most entertaining. 'One must be amused,' were her words, and she made me feel very young with her worldly wisdom. 'We do not contemplate matrimony, Mam'selle, but Mr. Yorke and I both think there may be an affinity of spirit, regardless of difference in age'! I was amazed at her philosophical attitude."

"How did you reply to her, Mademoiselle?"

"She quite took my breath away, but I only said, 'Clotilde, you will oblige me by seeing as little as possible of Yorke on the remainder of the trip.' I had fully intended to keep her with me this evening, and now she has slipped away. I think I ought to go and find her," half rising as she spoke.

"By no means," I answered quickly. "Indeed, I am quite on Clotilde's side."

"On Clotilde's side! Impossible, Monsieur! Such arrant nonsense!"

All this time I had been standing, for from a maidenly shyness (rather new in her, and which I liked) she would not ask me to sit beside her, and there was no other seat. Now I said:

"Mademoiselle, if you will permit me to share your bundle of pelts, I believe I can prove to you that it is not such arrant nonsense, after all."

"Certainly, Monsieur," a little stiffly; "I am sorry to have kept you standing so long."

She drew her skirts a little aside, and I sat down, quite at the other end of the bundle of pelts, but nearer to her than I had been in many long days. Then, in a purposely didactic and argumentative way, I cited to her all the instances in history I could think of, winding up with Cleopatra and Ninon de l'Enclos, until by entering into the argument she had entirely forgotten herself and her embarrassment. Then suddenly into a little break in our conversation there came the clear whinny of Fatima. She was on the other boat, tied close to ours, and as we were in the stern and she in the bow, she had no doubt heard her master's voice and was calling him. I was greatly tempted to call her by the whistle she knew, but I did not quite dare. She would have broken all possible bounds to come to me in answer to that whistle, and I would not have been surprised to see her clear the space between the two boats.

"That was Fatima," mademoiselle said, and sighed a little.

"Yes," I said, "and I think I could tell what your sigh meant."

"Did I sigh?"

"Yes, and it meant, 'I wish it were Leon.'"

"Yes," she said; "I was thinking how much Fatima loves you, and Leon, too, as soon as he was able to forgive your disgracing him so. I think all dogs and horses love you, Monsieur."

"That is because I love them, Mademoiselle."

"Does love always beget love?"

"Not always, Mademoiselle; sometimes it begets scorn."

"Then I suppose the love dies?"

"No, Mademoiselle; unhappily, it but grows the stronger."

"That is folly, is it not?"

"Mademoiselle, if you will allow me to be a philosopher like Clotilde—love has no regard for sense or wisdom, else would Yorke love one of his own age, and I would love one of my own country and my own rank."

She said not a word for a long time, but sat with downcast eyes. Suddenly she lifted them, and they shone with a softer radiance than I had ever seen in them before.

"Of what were you thinking, Mademoiselle?" I said gently.

She hesitated a moment, and then like the soft sigh of a zephyr came her words:

"I was wishing you were a chevalier of France."

"And I, Mademoiselle, was wishing you were a maiden of St. Louis, as I supposed you were when I first saw you."

"I would not have been of your country, even then," she said, with delicious shyness, half looking at me, half looking away in pretty confusion.

"Not now, but you soon would be. St. Louis will belong to us some day."

"Never!" She spoke in hot haste, all the patriot firing within her, and looking full at me with flashing eyes. "St. Louis will be French some day, as it used to be, I believe with all my heart; but American, never!"

"Mademoiselle, we had a wager once. Shall we have one more?"

"Is it that St. Louis will one day be American?"

"Yes."

"I am very willing to wager on that, for it is a certainty for me. What shall be the stakes?"

"Mademoiselle, they would be very high."

"I am not afraid."

I thought for a moment, and then I shook my head.

"Mademoiselle, I dare not. I am sure St. Louis will one day be ours, but the time may be long, and by that day the worst may have happened. You may have found your chevalier of France."

She looked up at me in a quick, startled way, which changed gradually to her old proud look.

"Monsieur, I know not what stakes you had in mind, but this I know: if 'twere a lady's hand it were unworthy you and her. A lady's hand is for the winning by deeds of prowess or by proof of worth, not by betting for it as though 'twere a horse or a pile of louis d'or."

"Mademoiselle," I cried in an agony of shame, "forgive me, I beg. Forgive a poor wretch who saw no chance of winning by prowess or worth, and who was so desperate that he would clutch at any straw to help him win his heart's desire."

Her look softened at once, and when she spoke again 'twas in her gentlest tones.

"Monsieur," she said, "to-morrow we part, and it would seem there is but little chance that we shall see each other again in this world. Fate has placed our lots on different continents, with wide seas between. But for to-night let us forget that. Let us think we are to meet every day, as we have met in these weeks, and let us have a happy memory of this last evening to cherish always."

I could not speak for a moment. Her voice, its sweet tones breaking a little at the last, unmanned me. I turned away my head, for I would not let her see the workings of my face, nor my wet eyes, lest she think me boyish again. It was the sealing of my doom, but I had known it always. And there was a drop of sweet amid the bitter that I had never dared hope for. She, too, was sad—then she must care a little. In a minute I was able to turn toward her again and speak in a firm, low voice.

"You are right, Mademoiselle; we will be happy to-night. Come," I said, rising and extending my hand to her, "let us go watch the revelers on the other boat; they, at least, are troubled by no useless regrets."

She put her hand in mine, and we went back by the stern rail and stood watching the scene below us.

A plank had been thrown from one boat to the other to make easy communication, and the crew of our boat, with the exception of the two left always on guard, had crossed over. They had cleared a space for dancing, and lighted it by great pine-knots cut from the forest close by. Yorke, set high on a pile of forage with his beloved banjo, was playing such music as put springs into their heels. Canadians and negroes were all dancing together—the Frenchmen with graceful agility, the negroes more clumsily, even grotesquely, but with a rhythm that proved their musical ear. Clotilde and a negress cook were the only women, and greatly in demand by both Frenchmen and negroes. Clotilde rather scorned partners of her own color, and was choosing only the best-looking and the best dancers of the white men, with a caprice worthy of her mistress, I thought, and probably in imitation of her. Yorke did not seem to mind, but with the gayest good humor called out the figures as he played. Suddenly, as he wound up the last figure with a grand flourish, he beckoned to a little Canadian who had been specially agile in the dance, and they held a whispered consultation. Then Yorke resigned his banjo to him, and, leaping down into the middle of the floor, seized Clotilde about the waist without so much as saying "By your leave," and shouted:

"Choose partners for a waltz!"

Consternation followed, for not more than half a dozen had ever seen the new French dance. But when the little Canadian started up with his witching trois-temps, Yorke and Clotilde glided off rhythmically to its strains, the half-dozen followed, more or less skilfully, and the rest stood round gazing in respectful admiration.

Now I had learned the waltz at home in Philadelphia, but it had never been danced at the St. Louis parties, and I knew not whether mademoiselle knew the step or not. Yet was I seized with a great desire to follow Yorke's example.

"Mademoiselle," I said timidly, "why cannot we have a dance here? See, there is a clear space on the deck, and the music is good."

"I waltz but poorly, Monsieur," she answered, looking up at me with a bright blush. "Madame Saugrain taught me the step, but I have practised it but little."

"Then we will be the better matched," I answered gaily. But when I had put my arm around her waist, and one of her beautiful hands rested on my shoulder, and I held the other in my firm clasp, I was seized with such trembling at my boldness in daring to hold her so near that almost my feet refused to move. Yet as soon as we were both gliding to the Canadian's music there was no longer any fear in my heart, only a great longing that the music might never cease and that we could go on forever circling to its strains. Wild thoughts whirled in my brain. Why need mademoiselle go back to Paris? I believed, as I bent my head and looked into her dark eyes uplifted to mine, that only a little persuasion would be needed to make her give it all up. And I said to myself, "I will try."

But the music stopped. Mademoiselle gently withdrew herself from my encircling arm, and suddenly cold reason returned. How could I dream of betraying Dr. Saugrain's trust! How could I think of persuading her to relinquish the glories awaiting her for me! And, most of all, how could I dare to think she could be persuaded!

Mademoiselle had thrown off her capote before beginning to dance; I picked it up and put it around her, and led her back to her seat on the pelts. But she would not sit down.

"No, Monsieur," she said; "our evening is over. I am going to my cabin. Will you send for Clotilde and tell her that I want her?"

"Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!" I cried, my heart in my mouth to beg her not to leave me without one word of hope. But then I stopped. It was all over; the world had come to an end.

"It is good-by, then, Mademoiselle?" I said steadily, and holding out my hand to her.

"No, Monsieur," she said, with that voice that from the first time I heard it had ever seemed to me the sweetest in the world. "'Tis au revoir—toujours, toujours au revoir!"

I watched her close her cabin door and turned back to my place by the rail, black despair in my heart, but just one little ray of hope brightening it—her courageous au revoir. Over the plank came Yorke and Clotilde, and strolled slowly up the deck together, Yorke thrumming his banjo and singing a creole love-song he had learned in St. Louis:

Insensibly my heart lightened. "Pour moi, je garde la mienne," I said aloud, and added in a whisper:

"Yes—though I must first win her, and win I will!"