picture. No, not quite, for a couple of Muscovy ducks were waddling about by the round wooden cistern, and a snappish yellow dog lay, expectant, just inside the gate. A little group of three people was sitting under the great lovely mespilus, whose fruit was all gone, but whose leaves were still broad and lustrous; and every now and then one who was evidently the mistress of the house, would disappear into the little kitchen for a few minutes, and come back fanning herself with a broad palmetto fan. Ninon Mandesson was a tall, shapely mulattress, about fifty years old, but not looking more than thirty-five; she was eminently handsome still, though by no means a fair-skinned specimen of her race, for she was quite dark and her hair unusually crêpé but her outlines were so free and noble, the flexible lips which closed over her magnificent teeth were so capable of expression, and above all, her large eyes were so full of serious, honest thought that no one could pass her without a second look. She was dressed like most of her class and color-for there is a distinction between mulattoes and quadroons-in a colored cotton gown, a white apron, and an immense Madras handkerchief, artistically arranged upon her stately head, her whole appearance being one of composed dignity and reserved simplicity. The girl sitting by her was of another type altogether; she was three, perhaps four shades lighter, to begin with, and her hair, which was a soft light brown, hung in straight heavy braids below her waist. Her eyes were a clear, near-sighted blue, with large black pupils, and the color came and went in her dimpled, flower-like face with every breath she drew.

Yet she was Ninon's own daughter's only child, and, looking more closely, there was a likeness, though what little Thérèse gained in delicacy and refinement by her approximation to the white race, she lost in vigor and expansion. She was excessively pretty, however, and in her simple print dress and little straw hat, no wonder Ninon's gaze rested on her with as much admiration as love.

But she was by no means the first in Ninon's heart, which, though it had only two occupants, placed the other immeasurably above Thérèse; nor was the latter jealous, for indeed Ninon had plenty of love and plenty of care for both.

She had loved the girl's father in the blind, unreasoning, idolatrous fashion in

which slaves and women sometimes do love, nor had there been any tale of desertion or cruelty in this case. Achille Meissonier was as indolent, pleasure-loving, and uneducated as any other Creole gentleman of his day to be found in Louisiana, but he was a he was a "good-hearted," and, according to his lights, an honorable man. And it was not till his young French wife was sleeping quietly in St. Louis grave-yard, that Ninon, who adored them both, proudly assumed the position which to her was the summit of human happiness, and to him a perfectly justifiable means of making himself and his little son comfortable.

To have considered the woman, who, besides being a slave, was quite incapable of considering herself, would in those days not have been thought Quixotic, simply because the idea could by no possibility have been driven into Monsieur Meissonier's mind. Nor would Ninon have consented to anything on earth which could have separated her from him, or from little Achille, who, since the day of his birth, had been her especial care, and after her mistress's death became the very apple of her eye, or, as she taught him to say, "Ninon, je suis le cœur de ton âme, n'est-cepas?" When little Thérèse was born, Achille was delighted with the pretty plaything only five years younger than himself, and Ninon, who had dreaded and resented the thought of anything which must interfere in the slightest degree with her devotion to him, reconciled herself to the sight of her own baby, and allowed her natural affection to have its way when she saw how pleased the boy was. The children grew up together, of course, but the relation between them, though kindly and intimate, was always that of slave and master. And the understood, but never expressed, tie of blood, made no difference in the respect paid by Thérèse to her brother.

He loved her, and she was his constant playmate, therefore they were really like brother and sister, and her deference to him seemed only natural from a young girl to an older man, but had he been of a different nature, and Thérèse ignored, neither she nor her mother would have felt aggrieved. Monsieur Achille was their hero, their demi-god, and on the particular midsummer morning of which I write, it was he who sat on the other side of Thérèse, and looked with the complacent, half-laughing, half-affectionate smile of an elder brother at the girl's growing beauty.

Achille nodded, and, in spite of his gloomy prospects, began to brighten; he had all his life known his difficulties to be smoothed away when Ninon took them in hand.

"And it is only the want of money that hinders you?"

"Only the want of the money! I have been over and over it all, and it will take more than I can ever scrape together. After the wedding, of course, I could get along on my salary, for then I should have no houserent."

"There is room for you with all those other children? You can go home to live with Monsieur Habert ?"

"I should think so!" indignantly replied Achille. "Young Delatour, Pierre Mansard, and old Caspaille have all gone there to live; why should not I? One son-in-law is as good as another, isn't he?"

Ninon did not answer this; but sat motionless, gazing out into the dusty street, and remained so, unheeding the conversation of the other two, till roused by an anxious remark of Achille's in reference to the dinner; then she rose and went in, with a cloud on her handsome face.

The noon-day meal was ended, and the spoilt boy was taking a comfortable siesta on the hard, black, horse-hair sofa within, while the two women were in the kitchen, washing up the dishes. Thérèse stood in the door-way, and, though her pretty blue eyes were dimmed with tears, she never dreamed of laying her cloth down, never raised her flushed, distressed face from her work. Her mother spoke low and hurriedly, words which did not disturb the two little birds that were fighting on the edge of the roof, nor the persistent chickens at their feet, nor the lazy cat stretched before the fire, though they were blighting forever the tenderest heart among them all.

"I can easily make Achille believe that his father left it with me for his use, and remember, Thérèse, it is a secret that must always be kept."

"Yes, maman," the gentle voice said tremblingly; "Monsieur Achille must have the money, je le vois bien; and I-I can still pray for my poor Armand." Her voice broke, and she ended with a sob, which, however, did not waken the slumbering Achille.

It was two months later, and if growing barricades of cotton-bales on the levee and dense clouds of smoke from hurrying steamboats on the river had not sufficiently indi

cated the arrival of autumn, the delicious air, full of life and softness, and sweet with mysterious perfumes, would have done so.

But there was one person who did not feel the healing touch of that soft, warm October evening, as she glided quickly along in the short-lived twilight, with that erect, swaying step which seems to be the peculiar heritage of the burden-bearing races of the world. Ninon Mandesson had aged wonderfully in two months, and the cloud that had settled upon her face that bright August day seemed never to have lifted; even the bright colors that she loved were gone, dress and head-handkerchief were alike of black; and, as she stood before the gate of a large white house gazing intently up at the open windows, the most casual passer-by could have read something of the sorrow and disappointment upon her face.

A few moments later, a woman's voice in that house was lazily calling "Entrez !" to the same figure, in one of the rooms of the third story. Ninon opened and closed the door, and stood in the presence of her who had lately been Mademoiselle Corinne Habert, but was now Monsieur Achille's wife, though-according to an immemorial Creole custom-she still lived in the paternal mansion, and in fact occupied the very bedroom of her girlhood, the only change in her position being a little more freedom to do nothing all day long, and a little less temptation to dance all night. She was lying now, in a position of some grace and infinite laziness, on a comfortable sofa, carelessly dressed in a loose white wrapper, and fanning herself with the "Journal des Modes"; her heavy black hair was tucked under a lace cap, and mules of red leather adorned her pretty feet.

The room was large, covered with matting, and carefully shaded from the light. A huge bedstead with a blue counterpane, a couple of rocking-chairs, and a tall bureau with gilt handles, were all the furniture; but one corner was occupied by a highly ornamented shrine to the Blessed Virgin, surmounted by a large plaster-of-paris image of the Mother and Child, and flanked by two flame-colored lithographs of Saint Joseph and Saint Joachim. A little receptacle for holy water hung over the bed, and a prie-dieu was employed at present in supporting a ball-dress, which had evidently hung there for some time.

The instant Madame Achille caught sight of Ninon, she began, in a high, angry key:

"Tell Madame La Bar that I will not stand being dunned in this way. Does the

66

"I am Ninon Mandesson, mademoiselle." Oh, Achille's old nurse! Why didn't you say so at once? Come in and sit down," and she sank languidly back on her cushions, and tapped her mouth with her pretty little white hand, to cover a yawn.

"Mademoiselle," said the negro woman, drawing nearer to the sofa, and gazing earnestly at its occupant, "you must have thought it strange that one so devoted to your husband should not have sooner come to pay her respects to you."

This was carrying things with a very high hand, Mademoiselle Corinne thought, so she replied hastily:

"Mon Dieu, non; I have seen too much of the ingratitude of old family servants to have expected anything from Achille's."

"No doubt," said Ninon with some bitterness, "there were slaves and slaves. But you would have seen me many weeks ago, had it not been for the illness of my daughter."

Mademoiselle Corinne had by no means a bad heart, and seeing the sad face before her and the black dress, said compassionately:

I

"Poor Ninon ! is she dead?" "No, Mademoiselle, she is not dead. am in mourning for her fiancé who died a few weeks ago in Mexico."

"Tiens! how very unusual! In Mexico! of what, par example, does one die in Mexico?" "Of a broken heart, I fear, Mademoiselle, or home-sickness, le bon Dieu only knows which. He was expecting money to bring him home, and it did not come, and he died of disappointment."

"Mon Dieu, que c'est triste! Ah, there is that tiresome bell, and I must dress for dinner. I wish you would hand me my slippers-there they are, just beyond you. What were we talking about?-oh, your daughter. Why did she not come with you?'

"Thérèse began her noviciate yesterday, Madame, at the convent of the Holy Family."

more and more as each one brought him nearer to her?

"Mon ange, I am not late?" he cried breathlessly, as he entered. "Ah, Ninon, where have you been this long while? I thought you had forgotten me."

But before Ninon could be listened to, peace must be made with the wife to whom it suddenly occurred to be aggrieved, and the old woman felt a strange tightening about the heart as she listened to her boy's despairing self-abasement. And had the young lady seen then what was passing in the breast of her quiet visitor, her sleep would have been troubled for many a night to come; but she did not notice Ninon's expression any more than she had noticed the sudden lapse from the familiar "Mademoiselle," which an attached servant never thinks of changing because of marriage, into the cold and formal "Madame" of a stranger.

Tenderly, gently Ninon told her news to Achille; not one word was there which would have betrayed to the most sensitive nature that this tale of sorrow was in any way connected with him. But it was an unnecessary trouble. Achille had only a " Poor Thérèse, poor Armand," for her, as he hurried on to claim her sympathy in his present happiness. "Is she not lovely, Ninon?" he said, earnestly. "Am I not supremely blessed?"

"If Madame's beauty pleases you, she will care nothing for my admiration," replied the old woman, coldly, when Achille's repeated inquiries obliged her to say something.

Corinne glanced at her from under her long lashes and said languidly :

"She is right, mon ami. It is foolish in you to be singing your wife's praises to Ninon as if she were a judge of beauty. I am glad to see she knows her place too well to answer."

Achille looked hopelessly from one to the other.

"But, Corinne, you do not know he began, when she interrupted him.

Run

"I know one thing; it is too dark to see the back of my head without a light. and get me a lamp, there's a good boy." Achille flew to obey, and the instant he was gone Corinne turned to Ninon.

Ι

am sure she will do it as cheaply for me as she can. Ah! here is Achille."

No need to tell it to that loving heart. Had not her ears caught the sound of his footsteps through the open window long

coming here to make trouble between my husband and me, you are mistaken," she said quickly. "You have completely blinded poor Achille, but you cannot blind me; and I am not going to have him under the

thumb of an old negro woman, I can tell you. There," she added, stamping her foot pettishly, "you have made me angry, and I hate to get angry this warm weather. Here is a little locket to remember me by," and, as she held out the trinket, Achille entered with the lamp.

"What is that, ma belle ?" he cried gayly. "A keepsake? Take it Ninon, and we will each give you a lock of hair to put in it."

sob; then controlling herself, "no one; as Monsieur says I shall be quite alone." She was groping about for the door-knob now, and in another instant had left the room.

"Wait a minute," shouted Achille running out into the entry. "I will go down with you."

But his wife's voice called after him imperiously:

"Viens vite, Achille, I want to speak to you at once; come back!"

The young man obeyed, promising to see poor old Ninon again before long, and with the thought dismissed from his mind the very recollection of her who stood an instant wringing her desolate hands before his gate, and then made her way back to the home destroyed for him, saying only to her broken heart:

"Tout perdu, tout perdu !"

REVOLUTIONARY, the Arnsden house? | Did not every gray, mortar-bedded stone in its walls say so, most distinctly? And if anything more were needed to rouse a patriotic thrill, was there not the Catharinewheel window, filling the clear-cut space where a British cannon-ball once struck the south end, just level with the eaves? And had not the north end its chimney running up outside, wide enough for a barbecue at the base, and then suddenly narrowing, sharp-hipped, for the rest of its way, while a picket-guard of dormer-windows still crouched sentry on the roof, and the curving stone gate-way still wore blocks from Ticonderoga as caps for its lichened posts? And what difference had a century made with the mile-wide breast of blue that lay before the mullioned windows almost like another sky? It gleamed through the tossing arms of the old oaks like blue facings through the slashings of a green silk sleeve; it made dusky Cleopatra-needles of the tall sharp cedars on the lawn, it touched the shelly strip at the foot of the slope, and then passed on in the same deep calm as when it went to meet the cable sunk to keep British sail from coming higher than West Point.

But once a year the oaks grew tired of green, and now for the hundredth time in their lives they were slipping on a motley suit. How could they wear green any longer when, night by night, mile after mile VOL. XVII.-30.

of woods were joining in gay masquerade, until up and down the river shore far as the eye could reach, scarlet and russet and gold glowed and burned as if some mighty palette had been spread to paint a world!

Armies, with flaunting banners, Miss Penelope Arnsden thought as she glanced through the mullioned pane, and at that instant, as the wind swept over them and they bent toward her till their glitter seemed to draw a step more near, it was not strange that a rapping at the front door gave her an odd little feeling and a start. For it was the same sharp rap of brazen fist on brazen griffin's head that had summoned the Arnsdens when Washington's shadow deigned to fall across the sill.

"Nonsense!" said Miss Penelope, however; "only the door-bell really is in plain sight," and rising from the window-seat, she swept with the true Arnsden rustle of her gown into the hall.

The upper half of the broad old door stood quietly swung inward on its hingesall generations of Arnsdens had liked to have it so and against the lower half a swaying little figure leaned, framed by the garnet and gold that glowed behind.

Forgive me," said a voice that spite of a half laugh like a child's, roused some mysteriously ancient echo in Miss Penelope's "I'm not Revolutionary at all, but my great-great-grandmother was."

ear.