Ma'am Mouton had kept up bravely
until the last, when with one final cry she extended her arms to the
pitiless train bearing him northward. Then she and Louisette went home
drearily, the one leaning upon the other.

Ah, that was a great day when the first letter came from Chicago!

Louisette came running in breathlessly from the post-office, and
together they read it again and again. Chicago was such a wonderful
city, said Sylves'. Why, it was always like New Orleans at Mardi Gras
with the people. He had seen Joseph Lascaud, and he had a place to
work promised him. He was well, but he wanted, oh, so much, to see
maman and Louisette. But then, he could wait.

Was ever such a wonderful letter? Louisette sat for an hour afterwards
building gorgeous air-castles, while Ma'am Mouton fingered the paper
and murmured prayers to the Virgin for Sylves'. When the bayou
overflowed again? That would be in April. Then Louisette caught
herself looking critically at her slender brown fingers, and blushed
furiously, though Ma'am Mouton could not see her in the gathering
twilight.

Next week there was another letter, even more wonderful than the first.
Sylves' had found work. He was making cigars, and was earning two
dollars a day. Such wages! Ma'am Mouton and Louisette began to plan
pretty things for the brown cottage on the Teche.

That was a pleasant winter, after all. True, there was no Sylves', but
then he was always in New Orleans for a few months any way. There were
his letters, full of wondrous tales of the great queer city, where cars
went by ropes underground, and where there was no Mardi Gras and the
people did not mind Lent. Now and then there would be a present, a
keepsake for Louisette, and some money for maman. They would plan
improvements for the cottage, and Louisette began to do sewing and
dainty crochet, which she would hide with a blush if anyone hinted at a
trousseau.

It was March now, and Spring-time. The bayou began to sweep down
between its banks less sluggishly than before; it was rising, and soon
would spread over its tiny levees. The doors could be left open now,
though the trees were not yet green; but then down here the trees do
not swell and bud slowly and tease you for weeks with promises of
greenness. Dear no, they simply look mysterious, and their twigs shake
against each other and tell secrets of the leaves that will soon be
born. Then one morning you awake, and lo, it is a