hrough the pine-trees to Henderson's Point.

If ever you go to Pass Christian, you must have a fish-fry at
Henderson's Point. It is the pine-thicketed, white-beached peninsula
jutting out from the land, with one side caressed by the waters of the
Sound and the other purred over by the blue waves of the Bay of St.
Louis. Here is the beginning of the great three-mile trestle bridge to
the town of Bay St. Louis, and to-night from the beach could be seen
the lights of the villas glittering across the Bay like myriads of
unsleeping eyes.

Here upon a firm stretch of white sand camped the merry-makers. Soon a
great fire of driftwood and pine cones tossed its flames defiantly at a
radiant moon in the sky, and the fishers were casting their nets in the
sea. The more daring of the girls waded bare-legged in the water,
holding pine-torches, spearing flounders and peering for soft-shell
crabs.

Annette had wandered farther in the shallow water than the rest.
Suddenly she stumbled against a stone, the torch dropped and spluttered
at her feet. With a little helpless cry she looked at the stretch of
unfamiliar beach and water to find herself all alone.

"Pardon me, mademoiselle," said a voice at her elbow; "you are in
distress?"

It was her fisherman, and with a scarce conscious sigh of relief,
Annette put her hand into the outstretched one at her side.

"I was looking for soft shells," she explained, "and lost the crowd,
and now my torch is out."

"Where is the crowd?" There was some amusement in the tone, and
Annette glanced up quickly, prepared to be thoroughly indignant at this
fisherman who dared make fun at her; but there was such a kindly look
about his mouth that she was reassured and said meekly,--

"At Henderson's Point."

"You have wandered a half-mile away," he mused, "and have nothing to
show for your pains but very wet skirts. If mademoiselle will permit
me, I will take her to her friends, but allow me to suggest that
mademoiselle will leave the water and walk on the sands."

"But I am barefoot," wailed Annette, "and I am afraid of the fiddlers."

Fiddler crabs, you know, aren't pleasant things to be dangling around
one's bare feet, and they are more numerous than sand fleas down at
Henderson's Point.

"True," assented the fisherman; "then we shall have to wade back."

The fishing was over when they rounded the point and came in sight of
the cheery bonfire with its Rembrandt-like group, and the air