e town from the post-office to Black Bayou went
up. Bravo! Every boat was coming in. But--was every man?

This was a sobering thought, and in the hush which followed it you
could hear the Q. and C. train thundering over the great lake-bridge,
miles away.

Well, they came into the pier at last, "La Juanita" in the lead; and as
Captain Mercer landed, he was surrounded by a voluble, chattering,
anxious throng that loaded him with questions in patois, in broken
English, and in French. He was no longer "un Americain" now, he was a
hero.

When the other eight boats came in, and Mandeville saw that no one was
lost, there was another ringing bravo, and more chattering of questions.

We heard the truth finally. When the storm burst, Captain Mercer
suddenly promoted himself to an admiralship and assumed command of his
little fleet. He had led them through the teeth of the gale to a small
inlet on the coast between Bayou Lacombe and Nott's Point, and there
they had waited until the storm passed. Loud were the praises of the
other captains for Admiral Mercer, profuse were the thanks of the
sisters and sweethearts, as he was carried triumphantly on the
shoulders of the sailors adown the wharf to the Maison Colomes.

The crispness had gone from Juanita's pink frock, and the cloth of gold
roses were wellnigh petalless, but the hand that she slipped into his
was warm and soft, and the eyes that were upturned to Mercer's blue
ones were shining with admiring tears. And even Grandpere Colomes, as
he brewed on the Cherokee-rose-covered gallery, a fiery punch for the
heroes, was heard to admit that "some time dose Americain can mos' be
lak one Frenchman."

And we danced at the betrothal supper the next week.

TITEE

It was cold that day. The great sharp north-wind swept out Elysian
Fields Street in blasts that made men shiver, and bent everything in
their track. The skies hung lowering and gloomy; the usually quiet
street was more than deserted, it was dismal.

Titee leaned against one of the brown freight cars for protection
against the shrill norther, and warmed his little chapped hands at a
blaze of chips and dry grass. "Maybe it'll snow," he muttered, casting
a glance at the sky that would have done credit to a practised seaman.
"Then won't I have fun! Ugh, but the wind blows!"

It was Saturday, or Titee would have been in school, the big yellow
school on Marigny Street, where he went every day when its bell