le friends."

"Mademoiselle," exclaimed the bard, "I'll--I'll dedicate my next
volume of poems to you!"

"Really, Mr. Straws!"

"For every kindness to her, you shall have a verse," he further
declared.

"Then your dedication would be as long as Homer!" she suddenly flashed
out, her arm around the child.

Straws looked at her quickly. It was too bad of him! And that borrowed
Don Juan smile! Nothing could excuse it.

Castiglione busied herself with Celestina's ribbons. "Whoever did tie
that bow-knot?" she observed.

"Good-by, Celestina," said Straws.

Celestina put her arms gravely about his neck and he pressed his lips
to her cheek. Then he strode quickly toward the gate. Just before
passing out, he looked back. The wardeness had finished adjusting the
ribbon and was contemplatively inspecting it. Celestina, as though
unconscious of the attention, was gazing after the poet, and when he
turned into the road, her glance continued to rest upon the gate.

CHAPTER IV

"THE BEST OF LIFE"

On a certain evening about a month later, the tropical rains had
flooded the thoroughfares, until St. Charles Street needed but a
Rialto and a little imagination to convert it into a watery highway of
another Venice, while as for Canal Street, its name was as applicable
as though it were spanned by a Bridge of Sighs. In the narrow streets
the projecting eaves poured the water from the roof to the sidewalks,
deluging the pedestrians. These minor thoroughfares were tributary to
the main avenues and gushed their rippling currents into them, as
streams supply a river, until the principal streets flowed swiftly
with the dirty water that choked their gutters. The rain splashed and
spattered on the sidewalks, fairly flooding out the fruit venders and
street merchants who withstood the deluge for a time and then were
forced to vanish with their portable stores. The cabby, phlegmatic to
wind and weather, sat on his box, shedding the moisture from his
oil-skin coat and facing a cloud of steam which presumably concealed a
horse.

The dark night and the downpour made the _cafes_ look brighter.
Umbrellas flitted here and there, skilfully piloted beneath swinging
signs and low balconies, evading awning posts and high hats as best
they might. There were as many people out as usual, but they were
hurrying to their destinations, even the languid creole beauty, all
lace and alabaster, moved with the sprightliness of a maid of Gotham.