ole day. Deep
were the mutterings she hurled at a fate that could have been so
short-sighted as to remove from earth so bright an ornament as
Gregoire. Her grief further spent much of itself upon the inoffensive
Betsy, who, for some inscrutable reason was for twenty-four hours
debarred entrance to the kitchen.

Therese seated at her desk, devoted a morning to the writing of
letters, acquainting various members of the family with the unhappy
intelligence. She wrote first to Madame Santien, living now her lazy
life in Paris, with eyes closed to the duties that lay before her and
heart choked up with an egoism that withered even the mother
instincts. It was very difficult to withhold the reproach which she
felt inclined to deal her; hard to refrain from upbraiding a
selfishness which for a life-time had appeared to Therese as criminal.

It was a matter less nice, less difficult, to write to the
brothers--one up on the Red River plantation living as best he could;
the other idling on the New Orleans streets. But it was after all a
short and simple story to tell. There was no lingering illness to
describe; no moment even of consciousness in which harrowing last
words were to be gathered and recorded. Only a hot senseless quarrel
to be told about; the speeding of a bullet with very sure aim,
and--quick death.

Of course, masses must be said. Father O'Dowd was properly instructed.
Pere Antoine in Centerville was addressed on the subject. The Bishop
of Natchitoches, respectfully asked to perform this last sad office
for the departed soul. And the good old priest and friend at the New
Orleans Cathedral, was informed of her desires. Not that Therese held
very strongly to this saying of masses for the dead; but it had been a
custom holding for generations in the family and which she was not
disposed to abandon now, even if she had thought of it.

The last letter was sent to Melicent. Therese made it purposely short
and pointed, with a bare statement of facts--a dry, unemotional
telling, that sounded heartless when she read it over; but she let it
go.

* * * * *

Melicent was standing in her small, quaint sitting-room, her back to
the fire, and her hands clasped behind her. How handsome was this
Melicent! Pouting now, and with eyes half covered by the dark shaded
lids, as they gazed moodily out at the wild snowflakes that were
hurrying like crazy things against the warm window pane and meeting