iously. So he
says:

"Well, I'm not satisfied. It's perfect as far as it goes, but don't
expect me to be satisfied with it. If I've seemed satisfied, shall I
tell you why it was, my dear--friend?"

Zosephine makes no reply; but her dark eyes meeting his for a moment,
and then falling to her horse's feet, seem to beg for mercy.

"It's because," says Mr. Tarbox, while her heart stands still, "it's
because I've made"--there is an awful pause--"more money without the
'A. of U. I.' this season than I've made with it."

Madame Beausoleil catches her breath, shows relief in every feature,
lifts her eyes with sudden brightness, and exclaims:

"Dass good! Dass mighty good, yass! _'Tis_ so."

"Yes, it is; and I tell you, and you only, because I'm proud to
believe you're my sincere friend. Am I right?"

Zosephine busies herself with her riding-skirt, shifts her seat a
little, and with studied carelessness assents.

"Yes," her companion repeats; "and so I tell you. The true business
man is candid to all, communicative to none. And yet I open my heart
to you. I can't help it; it won't stay shut. And you must see, I'm
sure you must, that there's something more in there besides money;
don't you?" His tone grows tender.

Madame Beausoleil steals a glance toward him,--a grave, timid glance.
She knows there is safety in the present moment. Three horsemen,
strangers, far across the field in their front, are coming toward
them, and she feels an almost proprietary complacence in a suitor whom
she can safely trust to be saying just the right nothings when those
shall meet them and ride by. She does not speak; but he says:

"You know there is, dear Jos----friend!" He smiles with modest
sweetness. "G. W. Tarbox doesn't run after money, and consequently he
never runs past much without picking it up." They both laugh in
decorous moderation. The horsemen are drawing near; they are Acadians.
"I admit I love to make money. But that's not my chief pleasure. My
chief pleasure is the study of human nature.

'The proper study of mankind is man.
* * * * *
Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled,
The glory, jest, and riddle of the world.'

"This season I've been studying these Acadian people. And I like them!
They don't like to be reminded that they're Acadians. Well, that's
natural; the Creoles used to lord it over them so when the Creoles
were slave-holding planters and they were small farmers.