t them, bewildered and astonished by Mademoiselle's
loyalty. She seemed to have forgotten Nick, as had I, and then as I
turned to him he came towards them. Almost roughly he took Antoinette by
the arm.

"You do not know what you are saying," he cried. "Come away, Antoinette,
you do not know what she has done--you cannot realize what she is."

Antoinette shrank away from him, still clinging to Mrs. Temple. There
was a fearless directness in her look which might have warned him.

"She is your mother," she said quietly.

"My mother!" he repeated; "yes, I will tell you what a mother she has
been to me--"

"Nick!"

It passes my power to write down the pity of that appeal, the
hopelessness of it, the yearning in it. Freeing herself from the girl,
Mrs. Temple took one step towards him, her arms held up. I had not
thought that his hatred of her was deep enough to resist it. It was
Antoinette whose intuition divined this ere he had turned away.

"You have chosen between me and her," he said; and before we could get
the poor lady to the seat under the oak, he had left the garden. In my
perturbation I glanced at Antoinette, but there was no other sign in her
face save of tenderness for Mrs. Temple.

Mrs. Temple had mercifully fainted. As I crossed the lawn I saw two
figures in the deep shadow beside the gallery, and I heard Nick's voice
giving orders to Benjy to pack and saddle. When I reached the garden
again the girl had loosed Mrs. Temple's gown, and was bending over her,
murmuring in her ear.

* * * * * * *

Many hours later, when the moon was waning towards the horizon, fearful
of surprise by the coming day, I was riding slowly under the trees on the
road to New Orleans. Beside me, veiled in black, her head bowed, was
Mrs. Temple, and no word had escaped her since she had withdrawn herself
gently from the arms of Antoinette on the gallery at Les Iles. Nick had
gone long before. The hardest task had been to convince the girl that
Mrs. Temple might not stay. After that Antoinette had busied herself,
with a silent fortitude I had not thought was in her, making ready for
the lady's departure. I shall never forget her as she stood, a slender
figure of sorrow, looking down at us, the tears glistening on her cheeks.
And I could not resist the impulse to mount the steps once more.

"You were right, Antoinette," I whispered; "whatever happens, you will
remember that I am your friend. And I will bring him back to