emently. "Don't go whar yo' thinkin' ob gwine,
honey," she implored. "Yo'll nebber come back, foh suah--foh suah! I
see yo' lyin' dar, honey, in de dark valley--whar de mists am
risin'--and I hears a bugle soundin'--and de tramp of horses. Dey am
all gone, honey--and de mists come back--but yo' am dar--lying dar--de
mountains around yo'--yo' am dar fo'ebber and ebber and--" Here she
broke into wild sobbing and moaning, tossing her white hair with her
trembling withered arms, a moving picture of an inspired dusky sibyl.
Mauville shrugged his shoulders.

"We're losing time, mammy," he exclaimed. "Stop this nonsense and go
pack a few things for me. I have some letters to write."

The old woman reluctantly obeyed, and the land baron penned a somewhat
lengthy epistle to his one-time master in Paris, the Abbe Moneau,
whose disapproval of the Anglo-Saxon encroachments--witness
Louisiana!--and zeal for the colonization of the Latin races are
matters of history. Having completed his epistle, the land baron
placed it in the old crone's hand to mail with: "If that man calls
again, tell him I'll meet him to-night," and, leaving the room, shot
through the doorway, once more rapidly walking down the shabby
thoroughfare. The aged negro woman stumbled out upon the balcony and
gazed after the departing figure still moaning softly to herself and
shaking her head in anguish.

"Fo'ebber and ebber," she repeated in a wailing tone. Below a colored
boy gazed at her in wonderment.

"What debblement am she up to now?" he said to a girl seated in a
doorway. "When de old witch am like dat--"

"Come in dar, yo' black imp!" And a vigorous arm pulled the lad
abruptly through the opening. "Ef she sees yo', she can strike yo'
dead, foh suah!"

The crone could no longer distinguish Mauville--her eyes were nearly
sightless--but she continued to look in the direction he had taken,
sobbing as before: "Fo'ebber and ebber! Fo'ebber and ebber!"

Once more upon a fashionable thoroughfare, the land baron's footstep
relaxed and he relapsed into his languorous, indolent air. The
shadows of twilight were darkening the streets and a Caribbee-scented
breeze was wafted from the gulf across the city. It swept through
the broad avenues and narrow highways, and sighed among the trees of
the old garden. Seating himself absently on one of the public
benches, Mauville removed his hat to allow the cool air to fan his
brow. Presently he moved on; up Canal Street, w