girl who will be glad to drink at the Pierian--I mean, the
Castiglione--spring."

Celestina's eyes were an agony of jealousy; not that she was
mercenary, or cared for the dresses, but that Straws should give them
to another little girl. Her pride, however, held her in check and she
drew herself up with composure.

"That would be nice--for the other little girl!" she said.

"The only difficulty is," resumed Straws, "there isn't any other
little girl."

At that, Celestina gave a glad cry and flew to him, throwing her arms
around his neck.

"Oh, I will go anywhere you want!" she exclaimed.

"Get on your bonnet then--before you change your mind, my dear!"

"And aunt?" asked Celestina, lingering doubtfully on the threshold.

"Your aunt, as you call that shriveled-up shrew, consented at once,"
answered Straws. "Her parental heart was filled with thanksgiving at
the prospect of one less mouth to fill. Go and say good-by, however,
to the old harridan; I think she has a few conventional tears to shed.
But do not let her prolong her grief inordinately, and meet me at the
front door."

A few moments later, Straws and the child, hand-in-hand, started on
their way to the Castiglione temple of learning and culture. If
Celestina appeared thoughtful, even sad, the poet was never so merry,
and sought to entertain the abstracted girl with sparkling chit-chat
about the people they met in the crowded streets. A striking little
man was a composer of ability, whose operas, "Cosimo," "Les Pontons de
Cadiz," and other works had been produced at the Opera Comique in
Paris. He was now director of the French opera in New Orleans and had
brought out the charming Mademoiselle Capriccioso and the sublime
Signor Staccato. The lady by his side, a dark brunette with features
that were still beautiful, was the nimble-footed Madame Feu-de-joie,
whose shapely limbs and graceful motions had delighted two generations
and were like to appeal to a third. Men who at twenty had thrown
Feu-de-joie posies, now bald but young as ever, tossed her roses.

"I don't like that lady," said Celestina, emphatically, when the
dancer had passed on, after petting her and kissing her on the cheek.

"Now, it's curious," commented the bard, "but your sex never did."

"Do men like her?" asked the child, with premature penetration.

"They did; they do; they will!" answered Straws, epigrammatically.

"Do you like her?"

"Oh, that's different! Poets, you know, ar