minous and tender, and seemed to tremble with light.

We sat silent, looking at the sky and at the shadowy grass that seemed
to meet it. Slowly the color deepened and faded.

"There can never be a lovelier evening," said Aunt Agnes, with a sigh.

"Don't say that," replied Jack. "It is only the beginning of even more
perfect ones."

Aunt Agnes rose with a slight shiver, "It grows chilly when the sun
goes," she murmured, and turned lingeringly to enter the house. Suddenly
she gave a startled exclamation. Jack and I jumped up and looked at her.
She stood with both hands pressed to her heart, looking--

"The child again," said Jack, in a low voice, laying his hand on my arm.

He was right. There in the gathering shadow stood the little girl in the
white dress. Her hands were stretched towards us, and her lips parted
in a smile. A belated gleam of sunlight seemed to linger in her hair.

"Perdita!" cried Aunt Agnes, in a voice that shook with a kind of
terrible joy. Then, with a stifled sob, she ran forward and sank before
the baby, throwing her arms about her. The little girl leaned back her
golden head and looked at Aunt Agnes with her great, serious eyes. Then
she flung both baby arms round her neck, and lifted her sweet mouth--

Jack and I turned away, looking at each other with tears in our eyes. A
slight sound made us turn back. Aunt Agnes had fallen forward to the
floor, and the child was nowhere to be seen.

We rushed up, and Jack raised my aunt in his arms and carried her into
the house. But she was quite dead. The little child we never saw again.

At La Glorieuse

BY M. E. M. DAVIS

Madame Raymonde-Arnault leaned her head against the back of her garden
chair, and watched the young people furtively from beneath her
half-closed eyelids. "He is about to speak," she murmured under her
breath; "she, at least, will be happy!" and her heart fluttered
violently, as if it had been her own thin bloodless hand which Richard
Keith was holding in his; her dark sunken eyes, instead of Felice's
brown ones, which drooped beneath his tender gaze.

Marcelite, the old _bonne_, who stood erect and stately behind her
mistress, permitted herself also to regard them for a moment with
something like a smile relaxing her sombre yellow face; then she too
turned her turbaned head discreetly in another direction.

The plantation house at La Glorieuse is built in a shining loop of Bayou
L'Eperon. A level grassy lawn, shad