up the short red brick walk and
tapped at the door. Within, M'sieu Fortier was caressing the violin,
with silent tears streaming down his wrinkled gray face.

There was not much said on either side. Courcey came away with the
instrument, leaving the money behind, while Martel grumbled at the
essentially sordid, mercenary spirit of the world. M'sieu Fortier
turned back into the room, after bowing his visitors out with old-time
French courtliness, and turning to the sleepy white cat, said with a
dry sob:

"Minesse, dere's only me an' you now."

About six days later, Courcey's morning dreams were disturbed by the
announcement of a visitor. Hastily doing a toilet, he descended the
stairs to find M'sieu Fortier nervously pacing the hall floor.

"I come fo' bring back you' money, yaas. I cannot sleep, I cannot eat,
I only cry, and t'ink, and weesh fo' mon violon; and Minesse, an' de
ol' woman too, dey mope an' look bad too, all for mon violon. I try
fo' to use dat money, but eet burn an' sting lak blood money. I feel
lak' I done sol' my child. I cannot go at l'opera no mo', I t'ink of
mon violon. I starve befo' I live widout. My heart, he is broke, I
die for mon violon."

Courcey left the room and returned with the instrument.

"M'sieu Fortier," he said, bowing low, as he handed the case to the
little man, "take your violin; it was a whim with me, a passion with
you. And as for the money, why, keep that too; it was worth a hundred
dollars to have possessed such an instrument even for six days."

BY THE BAYOU ST. JOHN

The Bayou St. John slowly makes its dark-hued way through reeds and
rushes, high banks and flat slopes, until it casts itself into the
turbulent bosom of Lake Pontchartrain. It is dark, like the passionate
women of Egypt; placid, like their broad brows; deep, silent, like
their souls. Within its bosom are hidden romances and stories, such as
were sung by minstrels of old. From the source to the mouth is not far
distant, visibly speaking, but in the life of the bayou a hundred
heart-miles could scarce measure it. Just where it winds about the
northwest of the city are some of its most beautiful bits, orange
groves on one side, and quaint old Spanish gardens on the other. Who
cares that the bridges are modern, and that here and there pert
boat-houses rear their prim heads? It is the bayou, even though it be
invaded with the ruthless vandalism of the improving idea, and can a
boat-ho