ertained. Does she not know it? Guests from the city
and from the near plantations. Yes, she knows it is late. She had been
abroad with Felix, and they did not notice how the time was speeding.
Felix is there; he will explain it all. He is there beside her, but she
does not want to hear what he will tell her father.

Ma'ame Pelagie had sunk upon the bench where she and her sister so
often came to sit. Turning, she gazed in through the gaping chasm of
the window at her side. The interior of the ruin is ablaze. Not with the
moonlight, for that is faint beside the other one--the sparkle from the
crystal candelabra, which negroes, moving noiselessly and respectfully
about, are lighting, one after the other. How the gleam of them reflects
and glances from the polished marble pillars!

The room holds a number of guests. There is old Monsieur Lucien Santien,
leaning against one of the pillars, and laughing at something which
Monsieur Lafirme is telling him, till his fat shoulders shake. His
son Jules is with him--Jules, who wants to marry her. She laughs. She
wonders if Felix has told her father yet. There is young Jerome Lafirme
playing at checkers upon the sofa with Leandre. Little Pauline stands
annoying them and disturbing the game. Leandre reproves her. She begins
to cry, and old black Clementine, her nurse, who is not far off, limps
across the room to pick her up and carry her away. How sensitive the
little one is! But she trots about and takes care of herself better than
she did a year or two ago, when she fell upon the stone hall floor
and raised a great "bo-bo" on her forehead. Pelagie was hurt and angry
enough about it; and she ordered rugs and buffalo robes to be brought
and laid thick upon the tiles, till the little one's steps were surer.

"Il ne faut pas faire mal a Pauline." She was saying it aloud--"faire
mal a Pauline."

But she gazes beyond the salon, back into the big dining hall, where
the white crepe myrtle grows. Ha! how low that bat has circled. It has
struck Ma'ame Pelagie full on the breast. She does not know it. She is
beyond there in the dining hall, where her father sits with a group
of friends over their wine. As usual they are talking politics. How
tiresome! She has heard them say "la guerre" oftener than once. La
guerre. Bah! She and Felix have something pleasanter to talk about, out
under the oaks, or back in the shadow of the oleanders.

But they were right! The sound of a cannon, shot at S