So runs the plantation love-song, and so sang a great brown fellow as, with oars over his shoulder, he strolled down "Lovers' Lane," between the bois d'arcs, toward the Mississippi levee.

He repeated it correctly until he neared the gourd-vine which marked the home of his lady, when he dropped his voice a bit and, eschewing rhyme for the greater value, sang:

And slackening his pace until he heard footsteps behind him, he stopped and waited while a lithe yellow girl overtook him languidly.

"Heah, you take yo' sheer o' de load!" he laughed as he handed her one of the oars. "Better begin right. You tote half an' me half." And as she took the oar he added, "How is you to-night, anyhow, sugar-gal?"

While he put his right arm around her waist, having shifted the remaining oar to his left side, the girl instinctively bestowed the one she carried over her right shoulder, so that her left arm was free for reciprocity, to which it naÏvely devoted itself.

"I tell yer, hit 's fine an' windy to-night, sho' enough," he said. "De breeze on de levee is fresh an' cool, an' de skift she's got a new yaller-buff frock, an' she—"

"Which skift? De Malviny? Is you give her a fresh coat o' paint? An' dat's my favoryte color—yaller-buff!" This with a chuckle.

"No; dey ain't no Malviny skift no mo'—not on dis plantation. I done changed her name."

"You is, is yer? What is you named her dis time?"

She was preparing to express surprise in the surely expected. Of course the boat was renamed the Maria. What else, in the circumstances?

"I painted her after a lady-frien's complexion, a bright, clair yaller; but as to de name—guess!" said the man, with a lunge toward the girl, as the oar he carried struck a tree—a lunge which brought him into position to touch her ear with his lips while he repeated: "What you reckon I named her, sweetenin'?"

"How should I know? I ain't in yo' heart!"

"You ain't, ain't yer? Ef you ain't, I'd like mighty well to know who is. You's a reg'lar risidenter, you is—an' you knows it, too! Guess along, gal. What you think de boat's named?"

"Well, ef you persises for me to guess, I'll say Silv' Ann. Dat 's a purty title for a skift."

"Silv' Ann!" contemptuously. "I 'clare, M'ria, I b'lieve you 's jealous-hearted. No, indeedy! I know I run 'roun' wid Silv' Ann awhile back, jes to pass de time, but she can't name none o' my boats! No; ef you won't guess, I'll tell yer—dat is, I'll give you a hint. She named for my best gal! Now guess!"

"I never was no hand at guessin'." The girl laughed while she tossed her head. "Heah, take dis oah, man, an' lemme walk free. I ain't ingaged to tote no half-load yit—as I knows on. Lordy, but dat heavy paddle done put my whole arm to sleep. Ouch! boy. Hands off tell de pins an' needles draps out. I sho' is glad to go rowin' on de water to-night."

So sure was she now of her lover, and of the honor which he tossed as a ball in his hands, never letting her quite see it, that she whimsically put away the subject.

She had been to school several summers and could decipher a good many words, but most surely, from proud practice, she could spell her own name. As they presently climbed the levee together, she remarked, seeing the water: "Whar is de boat, anyhow—de What-you-may-call-it? She ain't in sight—not heah!"

"No; she's a little piece up de current—in de willer-clump. I didn't want nobody foolin' wid 'er—an' maybe readin' off my affairs. She got her new intitlemint painted on her stern—every letter a different color, to match de way her namesake treats me—in a new light every day."

The girl giggled foolishly. She seemed to see the contour of her own name, a bouquet of color reaching across the boat, and it pleased her. It would be a witness for her—to all who could read.

"I sho' does like boats an' water," she generalized, as they walked on.

"Me, too," agreed her lover; "but I likes anything—wid my chosen company. What is dat whizzin' past my face? Look like a honey-bee."

"'T is a honey-bee. Dey comes up heah on account o' de chiny-flowers. But look out! Dat's another! You started 'em time you drug yo' oah in de mids' o' dem chiny-blossoms. Whenever de chiny-trees gits too sickenin' sweet, look out for de bees!"

"Yas," chuckled de man; "an' dey's a lesson in dat, ef we'd study over it. Whenever life gits too sweet, look out for trouble! But we won't worry 'bout dat to-night. Is you 'feared o' stingin' bees?"

"No, not whilst dey getherin' honey—dey too busy. Hit 's de idlers dat I shun. An' I ain't afeared o' trouble, nuther. Yit an' still, ef happiness is a sign, I better look sharp."

"Is you so happy, my Sugar?"

The girl laughed.

"I don't know ef I is or not—I mus' see de name on dat skift befo' I can say. Take yo' han' off my wais', boy! Ef you don't I'll be 'feared o' stingin' bees, sho' enough! Don't make life too sweet!"

They were both laughing when the girl dashed ahead into the willow-clump, Love close at her heels, and in a moment the Maria, in her gleaming dress of yellow, darted out into the sunset.

A boat or two had preceded them, and another followed presently, but it takes money to own a skiff, or even to build one of the driftwood, which is free to the captor. And so most of the couples who sought the river strolled for a short space, finding secluded seats on the rough-hewn benches between the acacia-trees or on the drift-dogs which lined the water's edge. It was too warm for continued walking.

From some of the smaller vessels, easily recognizable as of the same family as the fruit-luggers which crowd around "Picayune Tier" at the French market, there issued sweet songs in the soft Italian tongue, often accompanied by the accordeon.

Young Love sang on the water in half a dozen tongues, as he sings there yet at every summer eventide.

The skiffs for the most part kept fairly close to the shore, skirting the strong current of the channel, avoiding, too, the large steamboats, whose passage ever jeopardized the small craft which crossed in their wake.

Indeed, the passage of one of these great "packets" generally cleared the midstream, although a few venturesome oarsmen would often dare fate in riding the billows in her wake. These great steamboats were known among the humble river folk more for their wave-making power than for the proud features which distinguished them in their personal relations.

There were those, for instance, who would watch for a certain great boat called the Capitol, just for the bravado of essaying the bubbling storm which followed her keel, while some who, enjoying their fun with less snap of danger, preferred to have their skiffs dance behind the Laurel Hill. Or perhaps it was the other way: it may have been the Laurel Hill, of the sphere-topped smoke-stacks, which made the more sensational passage.

It all happened a long time ago, although only about thirteen years had passed since the events last related, and both boats are dead. At least they are out of the world of action, and let us hope they have gone to their rest. An old hulk stranded ashore and awaiting final dissolution is ever a pathetic sight, suggesting a patient paralytic in his chair, grimly biding fate—the waters of eternity at his feet.

At intervals, this evening, fishermen alongshore—old negroes mostly—pottered among the rafts, setting their lines, and if the oarsmen listened keenly, they might almost surely have caught from these gentle toilers short snatches of low-pitched song, hymns mostly, of content or rejoicing.

There was no sense of the fitness of the words when an ancient fisher sang "Sweet fields beyan' de swelling flood," or of humor in "How firm a foundation," chanted by one standing boot-deep in suspicious sands. The favorite hymn of several of the colored fishermen, however, seemed to be "Cometh our fount of every blessin'," frankly so pronounced with reverent piety.

At a distant end of his raft, hidden from its owner by a jutting point from which they leaped, naked boys waded and swam, jeering the deaf singer as they jeered each passing boat, while occasionally an adventurous fellow would dive quite under a skiff, seizing his opportunity while the oars were lifted.

None of the little rowboats carried sail as a rule, although sometimes a sloop would float by with an air of commanding a squadron of the sparse fleet which extended along the length of the river.

The sun was fallen nearly to the levee-line this evening when one of the finest of the "river palaces" hove in sight.

The sky-hour for "dousing the great glim" was so near—and the actual setting of the sun is always sudden—that, while daylight still prevailed, all the steamer's lights were lit, and although the keen sun which struck her as a search-light robbed her thousand lamps of their value, the whole scene was greater for the full illumination.

The people along shore waved to the passing boat—they always do it—and the more amiable of the passengers answered with flying handkerchiefs.

As she loomed radiant before them, an aged negro, sitting mending his net, remarked to his companion:

"What do she look like to you, Br'er Jones?"

"'What she look like to me?'" The man addressed took his pipe from his lips at the question. "What she look like—to me?" he repeated again. "Why, tell the trufe, I was jes' studyin' 'bout dat when you spoke. She 'minds me o' Heaven; dat what she signifies to my eyes—Heavenly mansions. What do she look like to you?"

"Well," the man shifted the quid in his mouth and lowered his shuttle as he said slowly, "well, to my observance, she don't answer for Heaven; I tell yer dat: not wid all dat black smoke risin' outen 'er 'bominable regions. She's mo' like de yether place to me. She may have Heavenly gyarments on, but she got a hell breath, sho'. An' listen at de band o' music playin' devil-dance time inside her! An' when she choose to let it out, she's got a-a-nawful snort—she sho' is!"

"Does you mean de cali-ope?"

"No; she ain't got no cali-ope. I means her clair whistle. Hit's got a jedgment-day sound in it to my ears."

"Dat music you heah', dat ain't no dance-music. She plays dat for de passengers to eat by, so dey tell me. But I reckon dey jes p'onounces supper dat-a-way, same as you'd ring a bell. An' when de people sets down to de table, dey mus' sho'ly have de manners to stop long enough to let 'em eat in peace. Yit an' still, whilst she looks like Heaven, I'd a heap ruther set heah an' see her go by 'n to put foot in her, 'ca'se I'd look for her to 'splode out de minute I landed in her an' to scatter my body in one direction an' my soul somewhars else. No; even ef she was Heaven, I'd ruther 'speriment heah a little longer, settin' on de sof' grass an' smellin' de yearnin' trees an' listenin' at de bumblebees a-bumblin', an' go home an' warm up my bacon an' greens for supper, an' maybe go out foragin' for my Sunday chicken to-night in de dark o' de moon. Hyah! My stomach hit rings de dinner-bell for me, jes as good as a brass ban'."

"Me, too!" chuckled the smoker. "I'll take my chances on dry lan', every time. I know I'll nuver lead a p'ocession but once-t, and dat'll be at my own fun'al, an' I don't inten' to resk my chances. But she is sho' one noble-lookin' boat."

By this time the great steamboat—the wonderful apparition so aptly typifying Heaven and hell—had passed.

She carried only the usual number of passengers, but at this evening hour they crowded the guards, making a brilliant showing. Family parties they were mostly, with here and there groups of young folk, generally collected about some popular girl who formed a center around which coquetry played mirthfully in the breeze. A piquant Arcadian bride, "pretty as red shoes," artlessly appearing in all her white wedding toggery, her veil almost crushed by its weight of artificial orange-flowers, looked stoically away from the little dark husband who persisted in fanning her vigorously, while they sat in the sun-filled corner which they had taken for its shade while the boat was turned into the landing to take them aboard. And, of course, there was the usual quota of staid couples who had survived this interesting stage of life's game.

Nor was exhibition of rather intimate domesticity entirely missing. Infancy dined in Nature's own way, behind the doubtful screening of waving palmetto fans. While among the teething and whooping-cough contingents the observer of life might have found both tragedy and comedy for his delectation.

Mild, submissive mothers of families, women of the Creole middle class mainly,—old and withered at thirty-five, all their youthful magnolia tints gone wrong, as in the flower when its bloom is passed—exchanged maternal experiences, and agreed without dissent that the world was full of trouble, but "God was good."

Even a certain slight maternal wisp who bent over a tiny waxen thing upon her lap, dreading each moment to perceive the flicker in her breath which would show that a flame went out—even she, poor tear-dimmed soul, said it while she answered sympathetic inquiry:

"Oh, yas; it is for her we are taking de trip. Yas, she is very sick, mais God is good. It is de eye-teet'. De river's breath it is de bes' medicine. De doctor he prescribe it. An' my father he had las' winter such a so much trouble to work his heart, an' so, seeing we were coming, he is also here—yas, dat's heem yonder, asleep. 'T is his most best sleep for a year, lying so. De river she give it. An' dose ferryboat dey got always on board too much whooping-cough to fasten on to eye-teet."

Somewhat apart from the other passengers, their circle loosely but surely defined by the irregular setting of their chairs toward a common center, sat a group, evidently of the great world—most conspicuous among them a distinguished-looking couple in fresh mid-life, who led the animated discussion, and who were seen often to look in the direction of a tall and beautiful girl who stood in the midst of a circle of young people within easy call. It was impossible not to see that their interest in the girl was vital, for they often exchanged glances when her laughter filled the air, and laughed with her, although they knew only that she had laughed.

The girl stood well in sight, although "surrounded six deep" by an adoring crowd; nor was this attributable alone to her height which set her fine little head above most of her companions. A certain distinction of manner—unrelated to haughtiness, which may fail in effect, or arrogance, which may over-ride but never appeal; perhaps it was a graciousness of bearing—kept her admirers ever at a tasteful distance.

There was an ineffable charm about the girl, a thing apart from the unusual beauty which marked her in any gathering of which she became a part.

Descriptions are hazardous and available words often inadequate to the veracious presentment of beauty, and yet there is ever in perfection a challenge to the pen.

As the maiden stood this evening in the sunlight, her radiant yellow hair complementing the blue of her sea-deep eyes, her fair cheeks aglow, and one color melting to another in her quick movements, the effect was almost like an iridescence. Tender in tints as a sea-shell, there might have been danger of lapse into insipidity but for the accent of dark rims and curled lashes which individualized the eyes, and, too, the strong, straight lines of her contour, which, more than the note of dark color, marked her a Le Duc.

There are some women who naturally hold court, no matter what the conditions of life, and to whom tribute comes as naturally as the air they breathe. It often dates back into their spelling-class days, and I am not sure that it does not occasionally begin in the "perambulator."

This magnetic quality—one hesitates to use an expression so nervously prostrated by strenuous overwork, and yet it is well made and to hand—this magnetic quality, then, was probably, in Agnes Le Duc, the gift of the Latin strain grafted upon New England sturdiness and reserve, the one answering, as one might say, for ballast, while the other lent sail for the equable poising of a safe and brilliant life-craft.

So, also, was her unusual beauty markedly a composite and of elements so finely contrasting that their harmonizing seemed rather a succession of flashes, as of opposite electric currents meeting and breaking through the caprice of temperamental disturbance; as in the smile which won by its witchery, or the illumination with which rapid thought or sudden pity kindled her eye.

Educated alternately in Louisiana where she had recited her history lessons in French, and in New England, the pride and pet of a charmed Cambridge circle, with occasional trips abroad with her "parents," she was emerging, all unknowingly, a rather exceptional young woman for any place or time.

Seeing her this evening, an enthusiast might have likened her to the exquisite bud of a great tea-rose, regal on a slender stem—shy of unfolding, yet ultimately unafraid, even through the dewy veil of immaturity—knowing full well, though she might not stop to remember, the line of court roses in her pedigree.

Watching her so at a safe distance, one could not help wondering that she thought it worth her while to listen at all, seeing how her admirers waited upon her every utterance. To listen well has long been considered a grace—just to listen; but there is a still higher art, perhaps, in going a step beyond. It is to listen with enthusiasm, yes, even with eloquence. One having a genius for this sort of oratory, speaking through the inspired utterance of another, and of course supplying the inspiration, gains easily the reputation of "delightful conversational powers."

And this was precisely an unsuspected quality which made for the sweet girl much of the popularity which she had never analyzed or questioned. She could talk, and in several languages, familiarly, and when the invitation arrived, she did—upward, with respect, to her elders (she had learned that both in New Orleans and in Boston); downward to her inferiors—with gentle directness, unmixed with over-condescension; to right and to left among her companions, quite as a free-hearted girl, with spirit and camaraderie.

A quality, this, presaging social success certainly, and, it must be admitted, it is a quality which sometimes adorns natures wanting in depth of affection. That this was not true of Agnes Le Duc, however, seems to be clearly shown in an incident of this trip.

As she stood with her companions this evening, while one and another commented upon this or that feature of the shore, they came suddenly upon a congregation of negroes encircling an inlet between two curves in the levee, and, as the low sun shone clearly into the crowd, it became immediately plain that a baptism was in progress.

A line of women, robed in white, stood on one side; several men, likewise in white, on the other, while the minister, knee-deep in the water, was immersing a subject who shouted wildly as he went under and came up struggling as one in a fit, while two able-bodied men with difficulty bore him ashore.

The scene was scarcely one to inspire reverence to a casual observer, and there was naturally some merriment at its expense. One playful comment led to another until a slashing bit of ridicule brought the entire ceremony into derision, and, as it happened, the remark with its accompanying mimicry was addressed to Agnes.

"Oh, please!" she pleaded, coloring deeply. "I quite understand how it may affect you; but—oh, it is too serious for here—too personal and too sacred—"

While she hesitated, the culprit, ready to crawl at her feet,—innocent, indeed, of the indelicacy of which he had become technically guilty,—begged to be forgiven. He had quite truly "meant no harm."

"Oh, I am quite sure of it," the girl smiled; "but now that I have spoken,—and really I could not help it; I could not wish to let it pass, understand,—but now that I have spoken—oh, what shall I say!

"Perhaps you will understand me when I tell you that I should not be with you here to-day but for the devoted care of two old Christian people who dated their joy in the spiritual life from precisely such a ceremony as this. They are in Heaven now.

"My dear old Mammy often said that she 'went under the water groaning in sin, and came up shouting, a saved soul!' I seem to hear her again as I repeat the words, on this same river, in sight of her people and within the sound of their voices. I was small when she died, and I do not clearly remember many of her words; but this I do well recall, for we lived for some years on the river-bank, only a few miles from the spot where in her youth she had been immersed. She taught me to love the river, and perhaps I am a little sentimental over it. I hope always to be so. My father remembers many of her words. She was his nurse, too. She told him as a boy that she had insisted on being baptized in flowing water, so that her sins might be carried away to the sea. It was all very sacred to her."

Of course the romantic story of Agnes's youth was known to every one present, and this unexpected allusion awakened immediate interest.

"Oh, yes," she replied to a question; "I suppose I do remember a good deal, considering how very young I was, and yet I often wonder that I do not remember more, as it was all so unusual;" and then she added, laughing: "I seem to forget that no event could surprise a child in her first experiences of life. Yet I remember trivial things, as, for instance, the losing of a hat. I clearly recall our watching my hat on one occasion when it blew into the river, and was never recovered! Think of the tragedy of it! I can see it now, tossing like a little boat, as it floated away.

"And the funny little cabin I remember—I know I do, for there were things which papa never saw, on the inside, in what he calls my 'boudoir,' the white cabin, which I shall never forget. When anything is kept ever in mind by constant description, it is hard to know how much one really remembers. You know, papa spent only one night there and his thoughts were turned backward, so that he naturally kept only vague impressions of the place.

"Yes, he has made a sketch of it from memory, and I am sorry. Why? Oh, because I was sure at first that it was not correct, and now it has come to stand to me in place of the true picture, which has faded. It is a way with pictures if we let them over-ride us. Why, my grandmother in Boston has a friend who had his wife's portrait painted after she was lost at sea. He spent all the money he had to have it done by a 'best artist who had made a hasty sketch of her in life,' and when it came home he did not recognize it—really thought a mistake had been made. Then, seeing that it was she as authoritatively pictured, and that he had paid his all to get it, he bethought him to study it, hoping some day to find her in it. And so he did, gradually.

"He had it hung over his smoking-table, and every evening he scrutinized it until its insistence conquered. For a whole year he lived in the companionship of an absent wife as seen in an artist's mood (this last sentence is a direct quotation from my Boston grandmama, who is fond of the story). And—well, 'what happened?' Why, this: One day the woman came home. People 'lost at sea' occasionally do, you know. And would you believe it? Her widower—I mean to say her husband—refused to receive her. He did not know her! He simply pointed to the painting and shook his head. And if she hadn't been a person of resolution and resource,—descended from the Mayflower,—why, she would have had to go away. But she had her trunk brought in and quietly paid the expressman and took off her bonnet—and stayed. But it was an absurdly long time before her husband was wholly convinced that he was not the victim of an adventuress. And she says that even now he sometimes looks at her in a way she does not like.

"So, you see, we cannot always believe our own eyes, which are so easily tricked.

"Still, even knowing all this, we consent to be duped. Now I like the picture of the cabin, even while I regret it, and, although I know better, I accept it.

"What is truth, anyway? That is what you hear said so often in Boston, where we are said to try to make pivots of it for the wheels of all our little hobbies.

"'Do I like Boston?' Like Boston? No. I adore it! Oh, yes! But yet, when I am there, I am a little rebel. And at each place I am quite honest, I assure you. You see, I have a grandmother at both places—here and there. Such dears, they are—adorable, both, and so different!

"Yes, that is true. Papa's portrait, the one Mammy had in the cabin,—yes, we have it,—twice recovered from the river. My father offered a reward, and a man brought it out of the mud, a little way down the levee, and not seriously hurt. It is a funny little picture of papa at six, in a Highland costume, with his arm over a strange dog which belonged to the artist. He looks in the picture as if he were stuffed—the dog does; but papa denies that. I believe this same dog appeared in most of the portraits done by this man, in all of those of boys, at least. For the girls he supplied a cat, or occasionally a parrot. The bird was stuffed, I believe. He did my stepmother at five, and she holds the cat. The portraits hang side by side now. If we could find him, and the parrot, he should paint me, and we would start a menagerie.

"Oh, yes; going back to the subject, there are many little things which I remember, without a doubt, for I could never imagine them. For instance, I remember at least one of my baptisms—the last, I suppose. I know I was frightened because the minister shouted, and Mammy kept whispering to me that he wouldn't harm me; and then he suddenly threw water all over me and I bawled. No, I have no idea who he was; but it was out of doors, and there was a rooster in it someway. I suppose it was on the levee and the rooster came to see what was happening.

"There is a picture which always reminds me of the time we lived behind the woodpiles, that called 'The Soldier's Dream,' in which a poor fellow, asleep on the battle-field, sees dimly, as in the sky, a meeting between himself and his family.

"I am sure that while we sat on the levee and Mammy talked to me of papa's coming, I used to picture it all against the sunset sky. Just look at it now. Was anything ever more gorgeous and at the same time so tender? One could easily imagine almost any miracle's happening over there in the west.

"Yes, I know the skies of Italy, and they're no better. They are bluer and pinker, perhaps, in a more paintable way; but when the sun sets across the Mississippi, especially when we have their dreamy cloud effects, it goes down with variation and splendor unmatched anywhere, I do believe. But," she added with a Frenchy shrug, "you know I am only a river child, and everything belonging to the old muddy stream is dear to me.

"I beg your pardon—what did you ask?" This to a very young man who colored after he had spoken. "Did we ever recover—? Oh, no. Their bodies went with the waters they loved—and it was better so. Certainly, papa used every effort. I hope the current carried them to the sea. She would have liked to have it so, I am sure, dear, dear Mammy Hannah!

"Oh, yes. The little monument on Brake Island is only 'in memory,' as its inscription says."

This was rather thoughtful talk for a girl scarcely eighteen, but Agnes had ever been thoughtful, and by common inheritance—from her mother and her father.

As the scene shifted, and conversation passed to lighter things, and her laughter rippled again as a child's, its range was sometimes startling. It was as brilliant as a waterfall seen in the sun, and often while her fond father watched her, as now, he wondered if, perchance, her laughter might not be prophetic of a great career for which eyes less devoted than his perceived her eminently fitted.

It is beyond the province of this tale of the river to follow Agnes Le Duc through life. Some day, possibly, her story may be fully told; but perhaps a foreshadowing of her future, in one phase of it at least, may be discerned in an intimation let fall by one of the passengers who sat with his companions at a card-table in the fore cabin. At least, they had spent the day there, stopping not even for dinner, and now they were moving away. As they found seats out on the guards, he was saying:

"'Rich!' Well, I would say so! He own all doze plantation around de town of Waterproof, and de strange part is he paid twice for some of dem! Of co'se he could not do such a so-foolish t'ing except he made dat invention. W'en you begin to collec' so much on every one of anyt'ing dat fill a want, you get rich, sure!

"No matter if it jus' one picayune—w'en dey sell enough. Dey say you can make sugar so quick by dat machine he invent—it is like conjuring—a sort of hoodoo!"

"Yes," said his companion, an American, "so I understand; and there is no man I would rather see rich than Harold Le Duc. His marriage, so soon after the recovery of his child, surprised some of us, but no doubt it was a good thing."

"A good t'ing! It was magnificent! If he is one of de finest men in Louisiana, she is equal to him. Dat remark dat he married only for a mudder for his child—dat's all in my heye! I am sure he was in love to her one year, maybe two, befo' dat—mais, I am not sure he would have asked any woman to marry him. He had not de courage. For him love was past—and he was afraid of it. Mais de chil' she wake him up again! Oh, it is a good t'ing, sure! An' de strange part, she t'ought she wou'n' never love again, jus' de same as him—until—"

"Until what?"

"Well, until he spoke! Until w'at you t'ink?"

"Not'ing. I t'ought maybe it was somet'ing unusual."

"Well, an' is dat not somet'ing unusual—w'en a widow is sure she will not love again? Dey often t'ink so, mais she was absolutely sure! You see, her first husband he was one hero; he fell on de same battle-field wid gallant 'Jeb' Stuart—from a stray shot w'en de fighting was over, carrying dat poor imbecile, Philippe Delmaire, off de fiel', biccause he was yelling so, wid dat one li'l' toe he los'! A good fellow, yas, mais no account! Yas, he drank himself to deat', all on account for de loss of dat toe, so he say. Excuses dey are cheap, yas. If it was not his toe it would have been somet'ing else. You know, his figure, it was really perfection, no mistake, an' to lose perfection, even in so small a matter as one toe—it prey on his mind. Tell de trut', I used to feel sorry for him, an'—an'—w'en he always would touch his glass an' drink dat favorite toast, 'To my big toe!' well, dere was somet'ing pitiful in it. I used to drink it wid him. It was no harm, an' he had always good wine, poor fellow. Mais to t'ink of Paul de La Rose dying for him! It make me mad, yet w'en I t'ink so, I am almos' sorry to reflect I have drunk to his toe! Bah—a valu'ble man—to die like dat! Wat you say? Yas, da's true. It makes not how de soldier fall—de glory is de same. Well, any'ow, if he could have picked out a successor, he could not have done better dan yo'ng Le Duc—sure! W'at you say? ''Ow is he bought doze plantation twice?' Well, dis way: W'en he had to take dem on mortgage, an' dey were sold at de door of de court-house—bidding against him, understand—no rainy-day sale—he paid double—I mean to say he paid so much as de mortagage again. Not in every case, mais in many—to widows. I know two cousin of mine, he paid dem so. I ricollec' dey tol' me dat he was de mos' remembering man to look out for dem, an' de mos' forgetting to sen' de bills.

"Oh, yas. An' his daughter, dey say she is in love to her stepmother—an' she is jus' so foolish about de chil'—an' wid good reason. She had never children—an' she is proud for dat daughter, an' jealous, too, of dose Yankee rillation. Still, she invite dem to come every year, so the chil' can stay—an' now, would you believe it? Dey are come to be great friends, mais, of co'se, her father sends her every year at Boston to her grandmother. Dey all want her, an' no wonder. If she was one mud fence, I suppose it would be all de same, mais you know, she is one great beauty! I say one gr-r-r-reat beauty! Wh! An'w'en I whistle so 'wh!' I mean w'at I say. You see me so, I am one ol' man, now—pas' forty—an' rich in children, an' not bad-looking children, neither; mais I would walk, me, all de way from de barracks up to Bouligny, an' back, just to see her pass in de street an' smile on me. You take my word, if she is not snapped up by some school-boy, she can marry anyt'ing—a coronet! An' I know somet'ing about women—not to brag."

"If you are so anxious to see dat young lady, Felix," said another, "you don't need to walk so far. She is, at dis moment, wid her father an' her stepmudder, on dis trip."

"W'at! w'at you say? Well, wait. I di'n' inten', me, to dress for de ladies' cabin to-night, mais w'en I have my supper I will put on my Sunday t'ings—jus' to go an' sit down in de cabin w'ere—I—can—look—at innocent—beauty! It pleasure me, yas, to see some t'ing like dat. Maybe I am not all good, mais I am not all given over for bad so long I can enjoy a rose-vine all in pink, or a fair yo'ng girl more beautiful yet.

"I tell you, my friends, I was sitting, week before las', at my 'ouse on Esplanade Street, on de back gallerie, w'ere de vines is t'ick, an' dey were, as you might say, honey-suckling de bees—an' de perfume from my night-bloomin' jasmine filled my nose. It was in de evening, an' de moon on de blue sky was like a map of de city, jus' a silver crescent, an' close by, one li'l' star, shining, as de children say, 'like a diamond in de sky,' an' I tell you—I tell you—

"Well, I tell you, I wished I had been a good man all my life!"

His friends laughed gaily at this.

"You don' say!" laughed one. "Well, you fooled us, any'ow! I was holding my breat'. I t'ought somet'ing was getting ready to happen!"

"Well—an' ain't dat somet'ing?—w'en a hard ol' sinner like me can see in nature a t'ing sweet an' good an'—an' resolute himself!"

"Sure, dat is a great happening; mais for such a beginning, so dramatic, we expected to see Hamlet—or maybe his father's ghost—or somet'ing!"

"I am thinking more of this exceptional beauty"—it was the American who interrupted now—"I am more interested in her than in the confessions of old sinners like ourselves. I am rather practical, and beauty is only skin-deep—sometimes at least. I should like to take a peep at this rare product of our State. Louisiana's record up to date is hard to beat, in this respect."

"Well," slowly remarked the man known throughout as Felix, "I am not telling! If I knew, I could not tell, and, of co'se, it is all guess-work, mais you may believe me or not—" he lowered his voice, suggesting mystery. "I say you can riffuse to believe me or not, I was—well, I was not long ago, one day, sitting at de table down at Leon's,—eating an oyster wid a friend of mine, and, looking out of de window, I happened to see, sitting in a tree, one li'l' bird—jus' one small li'l' bird, no bigger dan yo' t'umb.

"I was not t'inking about de bird, mind you. We were jus' talking about anyt'ing in partic'lar—I mean to say not'ing in general. W'at is de matter wid me to-day? I cannot talk straight—my tongue is all twis'. I say we were speaking of partic'lar t'ings in general, an' he remarked to me, 'Who you t'ink will be de Queen of de Carnival dis coming Mardi Gras?'

"I was pouring a glass of ChÂteau Yquem at de time,—to look after de oysters,—an' I di'n' pay so much attention to w'at he was saying—I can never pour a glass an' speak at de same time. I spill my words or de wine, sure. So it happened dat w'en I put me de bottle down, my eye passed out de window. Oh, hush! No, not my eye, of co'se—I mean my sight. Well, dat li'l' bird it was still waiting in the same place, in de magnolia-tree, an' w'en I looked, it give me one glance, sideways, like a finger on de nose, an' it opened wide its bill, an' just so plain as I am speaking now, it spoke a name." This in still lower voice.

"But I said nothing, immediately. A little wine, for a few glasses, it make me prudent—up to a certain point, of co'se. Mais, direc'ly, I looked at my friend, an' wid w'at you might call an air of nonchalance, I repeat to him de name exac'ly as it was tol' to me by de li'l' bird in de magnolia-tree. An' wa't you t'ink he said?"

"Oh, go on. W'at he say?"

"You want to know w'at he said? Well, dat I can tell you. He was greatly astonish', an' he whispered to me, 'Who tol' you? You are not in de Pickwick?'"

"Oh, a little bird tol' me!" I answered him. "No, I am not in de club."

"But the name? Do tell us!"

"Oh, no. I cannot. If I told, dat would be telling, eh?"

"Sure! It is not necessary," said another. "Well, I am pleased, me."

"An' me!"

"I like always to listen w'en you tell somet'ing, Felix. Your story is all right—an' I believe you. I always believe any man in de Pickwick Club—on some subjects! Mais, ol' man, de nex' time you make a story at Leon's restaurant, suppose you move off dat magnolia-tree. A bird could stand on de window-sill across de street jus' as well—a real window-sill."

"T'ank you. I am sure a real somet'ing-to-stand-on would be better for a real bird. Mais, for dis particular bird, I t'ink my magnolia is more suitable. Don't forget de story of de Mongoose!"

"Nobody can get ahead of you, Felix. Well, it is a good t'ing. It is true, her fodder was de King at las' year's Carnival—an' it is lightning striking twice in de same place; an' yet—"

"And yet," the American interrupted, "and yet it will sometimes strike twice in the same place—if the attraction is sufficient. I have a friend who has a summer home in the Tennessee mountains which was twice struck—three times, nearly. That is the house next door got it the third time. And then they began to investigate, and they found the mountain full of iron—iron convertible into gold."

"Well, and our man of iron, let us hope he may prove always an attraction—for bolts of good fortune!"

"A wish that may come true; if reports be correct, he is rapidly turning into gold," said the American. "I am told that he has found salt in immense deposits on his island—and that he has resumed the work begun just before the war—that of opening up the place."

"Oh, yas. 'Tis true. Over a hundred t'ousand dollars he has already put in—an' as much more ready to drop. Mais it is fairyland! An' me, I was t'inking too—sometimes I t'ink a little myself—I was t'inking dat if—I say if sometime his daughter would be de Comus Queen, not insinuating anything, you know—no allusion to de bird—w'at a fine house-party dey could have now, eh? Dey could invite de royal party, maids of honor, and so fort'—whoever is rich enough to lose so much time—

"T'ink of sailing up de new canal on de barge—"

"An' under de bridge—"

"No, not de bridge. He will never touch dat. He has made a new plan, entering another way. Dat span of de bridge he commenced—it is standing beside de beautiful w'ite marble tomb—to hold his family. His wife she is dere, an' de ol' negroes w'at care for his chil'—dey are laying in one corner, wid also a small monument."

"Are you sure dey are dere?"

"I have seen de monument, I tell you."

"Well, Harold he was always sentimental, if you will. I suppose dat broken bridge is, as he says—it is history, and he needs to keep it before him, not to be too rash. Maybe so. Who can tell? Two boys in de war, it was enough—if he had stopped to t'ink."

"Yas—mais de barge, de Cleopatra; dey say she is be'-u-tiful!"

"Cleopatra! For w'at he di'n' name her somet'ing sensible?"

"Dat is not only sensible—it is diplomatic. You know, w'en a man has only a daughter and a step-wife—w'at is de matter wid me to-night? You understand me. I say, in—well, in some cases, to discriminate, it is enough to drive a man to—"

"Oh, don't say dat, Felix."

"Let me finish, will you? I say it is one of dose indelicate situations dat drive a man to dodge! An' w'en he can dodge into history and romance at once, so much de better! An' Cleopatra, it sound well for a barge. An' so, really, if de beautiful daughter should be de queen an' dey could arrange one house-party—"

"Suppose, Felix, ol' man, you would bring out yo' magnolia-tree once more, you don't t'ink de li'l' bird would come again an' stan' on one limb an' maybe—"

"Ah, no. I am sure not. If dey had a grain of salt in dat story, I would try. I would put it on his tail. Mais, how can you catch a bird widout salt?"

So idly, playfully, the talk rippled on, ever insensibly flavored with rich romance of life, even as the fitful breeze skirting the shores held, in shy suspension, an occasional hint of orange-blossoms or of the Cuban fruits which, heaping the luggers in the slanting sun, laid their gay bouquets of color against the river's breast.

It is many years since the maid Agnes Le Duc, on her way to coronation at the carnival, stood while the sun went down in all her vestal beauty on deck of the Laurel Hill, and smiled through tears of tenderness at life as half revealed to her.

Many things are changed since then, and yet the great river flows on, all unheeding.

Laden to their guards, so that their weighty cargoes of cotton and sugar, traveling to mill and to market, are wet with the spray of playful condescension, panting ships of commerce, some flying foreign colors, still salute each other in passing, with ever a word of solicitude as to milady's health.

Old Lady Mississippi, is she high or low in spirits? And will her hand of benediction turn to smite and to despoil?

But, whether she be obdurate or kindly, hysterical or melancholy, or so serene as to invite the heavens, life and love and song are hers.

Uniting while she seems to divide, bringing together whom she appears to separate, a raft of logs contributed by her grace affording free passage the length of her realm to whoever will take it, paying no toll, she invites Romance to set sail under the stars in primal simplicity, eschewing the "bridal chambers" of white and gold which lie in the hearts of all the busy steamers, no matter how otherwise prosaic their personalities.

And still, afloat and alongshore, astride a molasses-barrel or throwing dice between the cotton-bales, taking no thought of the morrow, the negro sings: