laughter that found its way through the
hall, the dining-room, and two closed doors, from the men about the
waiting-room fireside. That was the third time she had heard it. What
could have put them so soon into such gay mood? Could it be Claude?
Somehow she hoped it was not. Her mother reminded her that the
batter-cakes would burn. She quickly turned them. The laugh came
again.

When by and by she went to bid Claude to his repast, the laughter, as
she reached the door of the waiting-room, burst upon her as the storm
would have done had she opened the front door. It came from all but
Claude and Mr. Tarbox. Claude sat with a knee in his hands, smiling.
The semicircle had widened out from the fire, and in the midst Mr.
Tarbox stood telling a story, of which Grande Pointe was the scene,
Bonaventure Deschamps the hero, a school-examination the circumstance,
and he, G. W., the accidental arbiter of destinies that hung upon its
results. The big-waisted man had retired for the night, and half an
eye could see that the story-teller had captivated the whole remaining
audience. He was just at the end as Marguerite re-appeared at the
door. The laugh suddenly ceased, and then all rose; it was high
bedtime.

"And did they get married?" asked one. Three or four gathered close to
hear the answer.

"Who? Sidonie and Bonnyventure? Yes. I didn't stay to see. I went away
into Mississippi, Tennessee, and Alabama, and just only a few weeks
ago took a notion to try this Attakapas and Opelousas region. But
that's what Claude tells me to-night--married more than five years
ago.--Claude, your supper wants you. Want me to go out and sit with
you? Oh, no trouble! not the slightest! It will make me feel as if I
was nearer to Bonnyventure."

And so the group about Claude's late supper numbered four. And because
each had known Bonaventure, though each in a very different way from
any other, they were four friends when Claude had demolished the ham
and eggs, the strong black coffee, and the griddle-cakes and
sirop-de-batterie.

At the top of the hall stairway, as Mr. Tarbox was on his way to bed,
one of the dispersed fireside circle stopped him, saying:

"That's an awful good story!"

"I wouldn't try a poor one on you."

"Oh!--but really, now, in good earnest, it is good. It's good in more
ways than one. Now, you know, that man, hid away there in the swamp at
Grande Pointe, he little thinks that six or eight men away off here in
Vermilion