rds off. At supper,
however, they were as merry as ever, and there was no end to their mirth
and liveliness. It seemed as if they had thrown off the burden of the
day's toils, and awakened to a new and more joyous existence. The three
Mexicans, with their gravity and grandeur, did not seem to be the least
restraint upon the girls, who at last, however, towards eight o'clock,
appeared to grow impatient at sitting so long still. They exchanged a
whisper, and then, rising from table, tripped into a adjoining room.
Presently the harmonious tones of a pianoforte were audible.

"We must not linger here," said the Creole. "_Les dames nous en
voudraient._"

And we all repaired to the drawing-room, an elegant apartment, where the
Mexican lady was already seated at the piano, while the two girls were
only waiting partners to begin the dance. Julie took possession of her
father, Silveira stood up with Madame Menou, Louise fell to my share;
and a cotillon was danced with as much glee and spirit as if both
dancers and lookers-on had been more numerous. Between dancing, music,
and lively conversation, eleven o'clock came before we were aware of it.

"_Voici notre maniere Creole_," said Menou, as he left me at my bed-room
door. "With us every thing has its time; laughing, talking, working,
praying, and dancing: each its appointed season. We endeavour so to
arrange our lives that no one occupation or amusement should interfere
with another. It is only by that means that our secluded domestic
existence can be rendered agreeable and happy. As it is, _nous ne nous
ennuyons jamais_. Good-night."

CHAPTER THE THIRD.

QUITE UNEXPECTED.

Eight weeks had flown by like so many hours. I had become domesticated
in the family circle of the Menous, and was getting so frugal and
economical, that I scarcely knew what a dollar or a bank-note looked
like. Time passed so lightly and pleasantly, and there was something so
patriarchal and delightful in this mode of life, that it was no
difficult matter to forget the world, with its excitements, its
pleasures, and its cares. I, at least, rarely bestowed a thought upon
any thing but what was passing immediately around me; whole piles of
newspapers lay unread upon my table, and I became every day more and
more of a backwoodsman. I rose early, slipped into my linen jacket and
trousers, and accompanied M. Menou about his fields and cotton presses.
The afternoon passed in looking over accounts, or in r