ed, but the young man did not return. The air was hot and
still. Mr. Tarbox looked at his watch--it was a quarter of five. He
rose and descended to the street, looked up and down it, and then
moved briskly down to, and across, Canal Street and into Bourbon. He
had an appointment.

Claude had not gone back to his loft at all. He was wandering up and
down the streets. About four he was in Bienville Street, where the
pleasure-trains run through it on their way out to Spanish Fort, a
beautiful pleasure-ground some six miles away from the city's centre,
on the margin of Lake Pontchartrain. He was listlessly crossing the
way as a train came along, and it was easy for the habit of the
aforetime brakeman to move him. As the last platform passed the
crossing, he reached out mechanically and swung aboard.

Spanish Fort is at the mouth of Bayou St. John. A draw-bridge spans
the bayou. On the farther, the eastern, side, Claude stood leaning
against a pile, looking off far beyond West End to where the sun was
setting in the swamps about Lake Maurepas. There--there--not seen save
by memory's eye, yet there not the less, was Bayou des Acadiens. Ah
me! there was Grande Pointe.

"O Bonaventure! Do I owe you"--Claude's thought was in the old Acadian
tongue--"Do I owe you malice for this? No, no, no! Better _this_ than
_less_." And then he recalled a writing-book copy that Bonaventure had
set for him, of the schoolmaster's own devising: _Better Great Sorrow
than Small Delight._ His throat tightened and his eyes swam.

A pretty schooner, with green hull and new sails, came down the bayou.
As he turned to gaze on her, the bridge, just beyond his feet, began
to swing open. He stepped upon it and moved towards its centre, his
eyes still on the beautiful silent advance of the vessel. With a
number of persons who had gathered from both ends of the bridge, he
paused and leaned over the rail as the schooner, with her crew looking
up into the faces of the throng, glided close by. A female form came
beside him, looking down with the rest and shedding upon the air the
soft sweetness of perfumed robes. A masculine voice, just beyond,
said:

"A thing of beauty is a joy forever."

Claude started and looked up, and behold, Marguerite on the arm of
Tarbox!

His movement drew their glance, and the next instant Mr. Tarbox,
beaming apology and pouring out glad greetings, had him by the hand.
Burning, choking, stammering, Claude heard and answer