efore then, and you and your father can take Sunday to look around,
and kind o' see the city. But don't go into the down-town part; you'll
not like it; nothing but narrow streets and old buildings with
histories to 'em, and gardens hid away inside of 'em, and damp
archways, and pagan-looking females who can't talk English, peeping
out over balconies that offer to drop down on you, and then don't keep
their word; every thing old-timey, and Frenchy, and Spanishy;
unprogressive--you wouldn't like it. Go up-town. That's American. It's
new and fresh. There you'll find beautiful mansions, mostly frame,
it's true, but made to look like stone, you know. There you'll see
wealth! There you'll get the broad daylight--

'The merry, merry sunshine, that makes the heart so gay.'

See? Yes, and Monday we'll meet at Jones's, 17 Tchoupitoulas Street;
all right; I'll be on hand. But to-day and to-morrow--'Alabama'--'here
I rest.' I feel constrained"--he laid his hand upon his heart, closed
one eye, and whispered--"to stay. I would fain spend the sabbath in
sweet Vermilionville. You get my idea?"

The sabbath afternoon, beyond the town, where Mr. Tarbox strolled, was
lovelier than can be told. Yet he was troubled. Zosephine had not thus
far given him a moment alone. I suppose, when a hundred generations
more have succeeded us on the earth, lovers will still be blind to the
fact that women do not do things our way. How can they? That would be
capitulation at once, and even we should find the whole business as
stupid as shooting barnyard fowls.

Zosephine had walked out earlier than Tarbox. He had seen her go, but
dared not follow. He read "thou shalt not" as plain as print on her
back as she walked quietly away; that same little peremptory back
that once in her father's caleche used to hold itself stiff when
'Thanase rode up behind. The occasional townsman that lifted his
slouch hat in deep deference to her silent bow, did not read unusual
care on her fair brow; yet she, too, was troubled.

Marguerite! she was the trouble. Zosephine knew her child could never
come back to these old surroundings and be content. The mother was not
willing she should. She looked at a photograph that her daughter had
lately sent her. What a change from the child that had left her! It
was like the change from a leaf to a flower. There was but one thing
to do: follow her. So Zosephine had resolved to sell the inn. She was
gone, now, to talk with the old