ture-galleries; we drove on the Shell Road that wound in shining
distance like a silver chain; and walked on Canal and Carondelet
streets, equally interested in the fine shop-windows and the fine
languid ladies who strolled past them.

To be in New Orleans at any time would have been joy enough, but it was
"gilding refined gold" to be there in the gay week preceding the
Carnival, and to look forward to Mardi-Gras itself to round off our
visit. Already immense "proclamations," printed in every color of the
rainbow, were thrown about the city like handbills, running somewhat in
this style:

"We command that Tuesday, Mardi-Gras, March 5, be set apart as a day of
Fun, Folly and Frolic, when the innocent license of the mask shall have
no let, when the places of festivity shall offer a night of pleasure to
all our people, and when the pageant of the Mystick Krewe of Comus shall
dazzle the eye and captivate the reason by the wonders of art and
beauty.

"Signed, REX.

"Attest: TYPHOON, PUCK."

Who composed this Mystic Krewe no one knew. Year after year, like a
splendid dream, a glittering procession moved through the streets at
dusk of Shrove-Tuesday, representing the fairest myths of fable and the
most gorgeous pageants of history. Mrs. Long, who had seen a Roman
Carnival, declared it far surpassed in magnificence by that of our own
Southern city. And we--lucky, lucky girls that we were!--were to see it
all! We were even to go to the grand ball at the opera-house; for,
though Aunt Nanny did not approve of balls, and we had never been to
one, Mrs. Long declared it would do no harm for "once in a way," and
that it would be a memory for a lifetime.

It is no part of my story to tell of the delights of the great day, nor
of its magnificent displays; nor of our fluttering hearts as we dressed
for the ball; nor of how pretty Lilly looked all in white, with white
flowers in her dark hair, and the onyx earrings shining against her fair
cheeks; nor even of the beautiful ball itself. A memory for a life Mrs.
Long declared it would be; and this, I doubt not, it will prove, but for
a reason she will never guess. Something happened so romantic, so
wonderful, so extraordinary, that I am sure when we are old, old
ladies--"sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything"--it will
give us a thrill of the blood to think of that Mardi-Gras ball.

We were dancing in a cotillon. It was the basket figure, where the
lad