has been in Natchez--its _belle_. The
"bloods" toast her at the drinking bar, and talk of her over the
billiard table.

Some of them too much for their safety, since already two or three duels
have occurred on her account--fortunately without fatal termination.

Not that she has given any of them cause to stand forth as her champion;
for not one can boast of having been favoured even with a smile. On the
contrary, she has met their approaches if not frowningly, at least with
denying indifference. All suspect there is _un ver_--_rongeur_--a worm
eating at her heart; that she suffers from a passion of the past. This
does not dismay her Natchitoches adorers, nor hinder them from
continuing their adoration. On the contrary it deepens it; her
indifference only attracting them, her very coldness setting their hot
southern hearts aflame, maddening them all the more.

She is not unconscious of the admiration thus excited. If she were, she
would not be woman. But also, because being a true woman, she has no
care for, and does not accept it. Instead of oft showing herself in
society to receive homage and hear flattering speeches, she stays almost
constantly within her chamber--a little sitting-room in the hotel,
appropriated to herself and sister.

For reasons already known, she is often deprived of her sister's
company; having to content herself with that of her mulatto maid.

A companion who can well sympathise; for Jule, like herself, has a
canker at the heart. The "yellow girl" on leaving Mississippi State has
also left a lover behind. True, not one who has proved false--far from
it. But one who every day, every hour of his life, is in danger of
losing it. Jupe she supposes to be still safe, within the recesses of
the cypress swamp, but cannot tell how long his security may continue.
If taken, she may never see him more, and can only think of his
receiving some terrible chastisement. But she is sustained by the
reflection, that her Jupiter is a brave fellow, and crafty as
courageous; by the hope he will yet get away from that horrid
hiding-place, and rejoin her, in a land where the dogs of Dick Darke can
no more scent or assail him. Whatever may be the fate of the fugitive,
she is sure of his devotion to herself; and this hinders her from
despairing.

She is almost as much alarmed about her young mistress whom she sees
grieving, day by day evidently sinking under some secret sorrow.

To her it is not muc