spoiled our dream that day as it
spoiled the after life, was it not?"

But the Bayou St. John did not answer. It merely gathered into its
silent bosom another broken-hearted romance, and flowed dispassionately
on its way.

WHEN THE BAYOU OVERFLOWS

When the sun goes down behind the great oaks along the Bayou Teche near
Franklin, it throws red needles of light into the dark woods, and
leaves a great glow on the still bayou. Ma'am Mouton paused at her
gate and cast a contemplative look at the red sky.

"Hit will rain to-morrow, sho'. I mus' git in my t'ings."

Ma'am Mouton's remark must have been addressed to herself or to the
lean dog, for no one else was visible. She moved briskly about the
yard, taking things from the line, when Louisette's voice called
cheerily:

"Ah, Ma'am Mouton, can I help?"

Louisette was petite and plump and black-haired. Louisette's eyes
danced, and her lips were red and tempting. Ma'am Mouton's face
relaxed as the small brown hands relieved hers of their burden.

"Sylves', has he come yet?" asked the red mouth.

"Mais non, ma chere," said Ma'am Mouton, sadly, "I can' tell fo' w'y he
no come home soon dese day. Ah me, I feel lak' somet'ing goin' happen.
He so strange."

Even as she spoke a quick nervous step was heard crunching up the brick
walk. Sylves' paused an instant without the kitchen door, his face
turned to the setting sun. He was tall and slim and agile; a true
'cajan.

"Bon jour, Louisette," he laughed. "Eh, maman!"

"Ah, my son, you are ver' late."

Sylves' frowned, but said nothing. It was a silent supper that
followed. Louisette was sad, Ma'am Mouton sighed now and then, Sylves'
was constrained.

"Maman," he said at length, "I am goin' away."

Ma'am Mouton dropped her fork and stared at him with unseeing eyes;
then, as she comprehended his remark, she put her hand out to him with
a pitiful gesture.

"Sylves'!" cried Louisette, springing to her feet.

"Maman, don't, don't!" he said weakly; then gathering strength from the
silence, he burst forth:

"Yaas, I 'm goin' away to work. I 'm tired of dis, jus' dig, dig, work
in de fiel', nothin' to see but de cloud, de tree, de bayou. I don't
lak' New Orleans; it too near here, dere no mo' money dere. I go up
fo' Mardi Gras, an' de same people, de same strit'. I'm goin' to
Chicago!"

"Sylves'!" screamed both women at once.

Chicago! That vast, far-off city that seemed in another world.
Chicago