rate! I
taught he iss goin' to kiss Mississ Reisen!"

CHAPTER XL.

SWEET BELLS JANGLED.

Those who knew New Orleans just before the civil war, even though they
saw it only along its riverfront from the deck of some steam-boat, may
easily recall a large sign painted high up on the side of the old
"Triangle Building," which came to view through the dark web of masts
and cordage as one drew near St. Mary's Market. "Steam Bakery" it read.
And such as were New Orleans householders, or by any other chance
enjoyed the experience of making their way in the early morning among
the hundreds of baskets that on hundreds of elbows moved up and down
along and across the quaint gas-lit arcades of any of the market-houses,
must remember how, about this time or a little earlier, there began
to appear on one of the tidiest of bread-stalls in each of these
market-houses a new kind of bread. It was a small, densely compacted
loaf of the size and shape of a badly distorted brick. When broken,
it divided into layers, each of which showed--"teh bprindt of teh
kkneading-mutcheen," said Reisen to Narcisse; "yoost like a tsoda
crecker!"

These two persons had met by chance at a coffee-stand one beautiful
summer dawn in one of the markets,--the Treine, most likely,--where,
perched on high stools at a zinc-covered counter, with the smell of
fresh blood on the right and of stale fish on the left, they had
finished half their cup of _cafe au lait_ before they awoke to the
exhilarating knowledge of each other's presence.

"Yesseh," said Narcisse, "now since you 'ave wemawk the mention of it, I
think I have saw that va'iety of bwead."

"Oh, surely you poundt to a-seedt udt. A uckly little prown dting"--

"But cook well," said Narcisse.

"Yayss," drawled the baker. It was a fact that he had to admit.

"An' good flou'," persisted the Creole.

"Yayss," said the smiling manufacturer. He could not deny that either.

"An' honness weight!" said Narcisse, planting his empty cup in his
saucer, with the energy of his asservation; "an', Mr. Bison, thass a
ve'y seldom thing."

"Yayss," assented Reisen, "ovver tat prate is mighdy dtry, undt
shtickin' in ten dtroat."

"No, seh!" said the flatterer, with a generous smile. "Egscuse me--I
diffeh fum you. 'Tis a beaucheouz bwead. Yesseh. And eve'y loaf got the
name beaucheouzly pwint on the top, with 'Patent'--sich an' sich a time.
'Tis the tooth, Mr. Bison, I'm boun' to congwatu_late_ you on t