with his chin over the edge. Far below he saw the
water whitened by her struggles, and heard one shrill cry for help that
seemed to dart upwards along the perpendicular face of the rock, and
soar past, straight into the high and impassive heaven.

Madame Levaille sat, dry-eyed, on the short grass of the hill side, with
her thick legs stretched out, and her old feet turned up in their black
cloth shoes. Her clogs stood near by, and further off the umbrella
lay on the withered sward like a weapon dropped from the grasp of a
vanquished warrior. The Marquis of Chavanes, on horseback, one gloved
hand on thigh, looked down at her as she got up laboriously, with
groans. On the narrow track of the seaweed-carts four men were carrying
inland Susan's body on a hand-barrow, while several others straggled
listlessly behind. Madame Levaille looked after the procession. "Yes,
Monsieur le Marquis," she said dispassionately, in her usual calm tone
of a reasonable old woman. "There are unfortunate people on this earth.
I had only one child. Only one! And they won't bury her in consecrated
ground!"

Her eyes filled suddenly, and a short shower of tears rolled down the
broad cheeks. She pulled the shawl close about her. The Marquis leaned
slightly over in his saddle, and said--

"It is very sad. You have all my sympathy. I shall speak to the Cure.
She was unquestionably insane, and the fall was accidental. Millot says
so distinctly. Good-day, Madame."

And he trotted off, thinking to himself: "I must get this old woman
appointed guardian of those idiots, and administrator of the farm.
It would be much better than having here one of those other Bacadous,
probably a red republican, corrupting my commune."

AN OUTPOST OF PROGRESS

I

There were two white men in charge of the trading station. Kayerts, the
chief, was short and fat; Carlier, the assistant, was tall, with a large
head and a very broad trunk perched upon a long pair of thin legs. The
third man on the staff was a Sierra Leone nigger, who maintained that
his name was Henry Price. However, for some reason or other, the natives
down the river had given him the name of Makola, and it stuck to him
through all his wanderings about the country. He spoke English and
French with a warbling accent, wrote a beautiful hand, understood
bookkeeping, and cherished in his innermost heart the worship of evil
spirits. His wife was a negress from Loanda, very large and very noisy.