inful but sincere English:--

"Monsieur, you mek my daughter ver' happy. She want those bird ever
sence Captain Lopez he die. Monsieur, I am Jean Baptiste Lenoir, Colonel
Chouteau's miller, and we ver' happy to see you at the pon'."

"If Monsieur will lead the way," said Nick, instantly, taking the little
man by the arm.

"But you are to dine at Madame Chouteau's," I expostulated.

"To be sure," said he. "Au revoir, Monsieur. Au revoir, Mademoiselle.
Plus tard, Mademoiselle; nous danserons plus tard."

"What devil inhabits you?" I said, when I had got him started on the way
to Madame Chouteau's.

"Your own, at present, Davy," he answered, laying a hand on my shoulder,
"else I should be on the way to the pon' with Lenoir. But the ball is to
come," and he executed several steps in anticipation. "Davy, I am sorry
for you."

"Why?" I demanded, though feeling a little self-commiseration also.

"You will never know how to enjoy yourself," said he, with conviction.

Madame Chouteau lived in a stone house, wide and low, surrounded by trees
and gardens. It was a pretty tribute of respect her children and
grandchildren paid her that day, in accordance with the old French usage
of honoring the parent. I should like to linger on the scene, and tell
how Nick made them all laugh over the story of Suzanne Lenoir and the
yellow birds, and how the children pressed around him and made him
imitate all the denizens of wood and field, amid deafening shrieks of
delight.

"You have probably delayed Gaspard's wooing another year, Mr. Temple.
Suzanne is a sad coquette," said Colonel Auguste Chouteau, laughing, as
we set out for the ball.

The sun was hanging low over the western hills as we approached the
barracks, and out of the open windows came the merry, mad sounds of
violin, guitar, and flageolet, the tinkle of a triangle now and then, the
shouts of laughter, the shuffle of many feet over the puncheons. Within
the door, smiling and benignant, unmindful of the stifling atmosphere,
sat the black-robed village priest talking volubly to an elderly man in a
scarlet cap, and several stout ladies ranged along the wall: beyond them,
on a platform, Zeron, the baker, fiddled as though his life depended on
it, the perspiration dripping from his brow, frowning, gesticulating at
them with the flageolet and the triangle. And in a dim, noisy, heated
whirl the whole village went round and round and round under the low
ceiling in the valse, yo