inute."

Some one coming up to pay looked at Claude to see what the daughter
was like, and the young man slipped away, outblushing the night sky
when the marshes are afire.

The question was settled; settled the wrong way. He hurried on across
Canal Street. Marguerite had not been, as he had construed the
inaccurate statement, in the city for two weeks. Resemblances need
delude him no longer. He went on into Carondelet Street and was
drawing near the door and stairway leading to his friend's studio and
his own little workroom above it, when suddenly from that very
stairway and door issued she whom, alas! he might now no longer
mistake for Marguerite, yet who, none the less for lessening hope,
held him captive.

CHAPTER XIV.

WHO SHE WAS.

For a moment somewhat more than her profile shone upon Claude's
bewildered gaze.

"I shall see her eye to eye at last!" shouted his heart within: but
the next moment she turned away, and with two companions who came
across the same threshold, moved up the street, and, at the nearest
corner, vanished. Her companions were the American lady and the
artist. Claude wheeled, and hurried to pass around the square in the
opposite direction, and, as he reached the middle of its third side,
saw the artist hand them into the street-car, lift his hat, and return
towards the studio. The two men met at the foot of the stairs. The
Spaniard's countenance betrayed a restrained elation.

"You goin' see a picture now," he said, in a modestly triumphant tone.
"Come in," he added, as Claude would have passed the studio door.

They went in together. The Spaniard talked; Claude scarcely spoke. I
cannot repeat the conversation literally, but the facts are these: A
few evenings before, the artist had been one of the guests at a
musical party given by a lady whose name he did not mention. He
happened--he modestly believed it accidental--to be seated beside the
hostess, when a young lady--"jung Creole la-thy," he called her--who
was spending a few days with her, played the violin. The Spaniard's
delicate propriety left her also nameless; but he explained that, as
he understood, she was from the Teche. She played charmingly--"for an
amateur," he qualified: but what had struck him more than the music
was her beauty, her figure, her picturesque grace. And when he
confessed his delight in these, his hostess, seemingly on the
inspiration of the moment, said:

"Paint her picture! Paint her just so