ple. No wonder Rene's scowling
expression changed to one of abject self-concern when the priest's name
was suddenly connected with his mood. The confessional loomed up before
the eyes of his conscience, and his knees smote together, spiritually
if not physically.

"Now," said Alice, brusquely, but with sweet and gentle firmness, "go
to your fiancee, go to pretty and good Adrienne, and ask her to be your
partenaire. Refresh your conscience with a noble draught of duty and
make that dear little girl overflow with joy. Go, Rene de Ronville."

In making over what she said into English, the translation turns out to
be but a sonorous paraphrase. Her French was of that mixed creole sort,
a blending of linguistic elegance and patois, impossible to imitate.
Like herself it was beautiful, crude, fascinating, and something in it
impressed itself as unimpeachable, despite the broken and incongruous
diction. Rene felt his soul cowering, even slinking; but he fairly
maintained a good face, and went away without saying another word.

"Ciel, ciel, how beautiful she is!" he thought, as he walked along the
narrow street in the dreamy sunshine. "But she is not for me, not for
me."

He shook himself and tried to be cheerful. In fact he hummed a Creole
ditty, something about

"La belle Jeanette, qu' a brise mon coeur."

Days passed, and at last the time of the great event arrived. It was a
frosty night, clear, sparkling with stars, a keen breath cutting down
from the northwest. M. Roussillon, Madame Roussillon, Alice and
Lieutenant Beverley went together to the river house, whither they had
been preceded by almost the entire population of Vincennes. Some fires
had been built outside; the crowd proving too great for the building's
capacity, as there had to be ample space for the dancers. Merry groups
hovered around the flaming logs, while within the house a fiddle sang
its simple and ravishing tunes. Everybody talked and laughed; it was a
lively racket of clashing voices and rhythmical feet.

You would have been surprised to find that Oncle Jazon was the fiddler;
but there he sat, perched on a high stool in one corner of the large
room, sawing away as if for dear life, his head wagging, his elbow
leaping back and forth, while his scalpless crown shone like the side
of a peeled onion and his puckered mouth wagged grotesquely from side
to side keeping time to his tuneful scraping.

When the Roussillon party arrived it attracted cond