his tribute.

"Oh," cried Nick, "the arbiter of etiquette!"

"Since I am here, Mademoiselle," I answered, with anything but
readiness, "I am not a proper judge."

Her next question staggered me.

"You are well-born?" she asked.

"Mr. Ritchie's grandfather was a Scottish earl," said Nick, immediately,
a piece of news that startled me into protest. "It is true, Davy, though
you may not know it," he added.

"And you, Monsieur?" she said to Nick.

"I am his cousin,--is it not honor enough?" said he.

"Yet you do not resemble one another."

"Mr. Ritchie has all the good looks in the family," said Nick.

"Oh!" cried the young lady, and this time she gave us her profile.

"Come, Mademoiselle," said Nick, "since the fates have cast the die, let
us all sit down in the shade. The place was made for us."

"Monsieur!" she cried, giving back, "I have never in my life been alone
with gentlemen."

"But Mr. Ritchie is a duenna to satisfy the most exacting," said Nick;
"when you know him better you will believe me."

She laughed softly and glanced at me. By this time we were all three
under the branches.

"Monsieur, you do not understand the French customs. Mon Dieu, if the
good Sister Lorette could see me now--"

"But she is safe in the convent," said Nick. "Are they going to put
glass on the walls?"

"And why?" asked Mademoiselle, innocently.

"Because," said Nick, "because a very bad man has come to New
Orleans,--one who is given to climbing walls."

"You?"

"Yes. But when I found that a certain demoiselle had left the convent, I
was no longer anxious to climb them."

"And how did you know that I had left it?"

I was at a loss to know whether this were coquetry or innocence.

"Because I saw you on the levee," said Nick.

"You saw me on the levee?" she repeated, giving back.

"And I had a great fear," the rogue persisted.

"A fear of what?"

"A fear that you were married," he said, with a boldness that made
me blush. As for Mademoiselle, a color that vied with the June roses
charged through her cheeks. She stooped to pick up her sewing, but Nick
was before her.

"And why did you think me married?" she asked in a voice so low that we
scarcely heard.

"Faith," said Nick, "because you seemed to be quarrelling with a man."

She turned to him with an irresistible seriousness.

"And is that your idea of marriage, Monsieur?"

This time it was I who laughed, for he had been hit very fairly.

"Mademo