of my slaves; not the least little négrillon. Drive him from the place with the shot-gun. Don't be afraid to use the shot-gun, Alcibiade—when I am asleep—if he comes."
Esmée and Bartner forgot that there was such a thing as time, and that it was passing. There were no more calls of "Alcibiade, mon fils!" As the sun dipped lower and lower in the west, its light was creeping, creeping up and illuming the still body of Monsieur Jean Ba. It lighted his waxen hands, folded so placidly in his lap; it touched his shrunken bosom. When it reached his face, another brightness had come there before it—the glory of a quiet and peaceful death.
Bartner remained over night, of course, to add what assistance he could to that which kindly neighbors offered.
In the early morning, before taking his departure, he was permitted to see Esmée. She was overcome with sorrow, which he could hardly hope to assuage, even with the keen sympathy which he felt.
"And may I be permitted to ask, Mademoiselle, what will be your plans for the future?"
"Oh," she moaned, "I cannot any longer remain upon the ole plantation, which would not be home without grandpère. I suppose I shall go to live in New Orleans with my tante Clémentine." The last was spoken in the depths of her handkerchief.
Bartner's heart bounded at this intelligence in a manner which he could not but feel was one of unbecoming levity. He pressed her disengaged hand warmly, and went away.
The sun was again shining brightly, but the morning was crisp and cool; a thin wafer of ice covered what had yesterday been pools or water in the road. Bartner buttoned his coat about him closely. The shrill whistles of steam cotton-gins sounded here and there. One or two shivering negroes were in the field gathering what shreds of cotton were left on the dry, naked stalks. The horses snorted with satisfaction, and their strong hoof-beats rang out against the hard ground.
"Urge the horses," Bartner said; "they 've had a good rest and we want to push on to Natchitoches."
"You right, suh. We done los' a whole blesse' day—a plumb day."
"Why, so we have," said Bartner, "I had n't thought of it."
A RUDE AWAKENING.
"Take de do' an' go! You year me? Take de do'!"
Lolotte's brown eyes flamed. Her small frame quivered. She stood with her back turned to a meagre supper-table, as if to guard it from the man who had just entered the cabin. She pointed toward the door, to order him from the house.
"You mighty cross to-night, Lolotte. You mus' got up wid de wrong foot to's mo'nin'. Hein, Veveste? hein, Jacques, w'at you say?"
The two small urchins who sat at table giggled in sympathy with their father's evident good humor.
"I'm we' out, me!" the girl exclaimed, desperately, as she let her arms fall limp at her side. "Work, work! Fu w'at? Fu feed de lazies' man in Natchitoches pa'ish."
"Now, Lolotte, you think w'at you say in'," expostulated her father. "Sylveste Bordon don' ax nobody to feed 'im."
"W'en you brought a poun' of suga in de house?" his daughter retorted hotly, "or a poun' of coffee? W'en did you brought a piece o' meat home, you? An' Nonomme all de time sick. Co'n bread an' po'k, dat's good fu Veveste an' me an' Jacques; but Nonomme? no!"
She turned as if choking, and cut into the round, soggy "pone" of corn bread which was the main feature of the scanty supper.
"Po' li'le Nonomme; we mus' fine some'in' to break dat fevah. You want to kill a chicken once a w'ile fu Nonomme, Lolotte." He calmly seated himself at the table.
"Did n' I done put de las' roostah in de pot?" she cried with exasperation. "Now you come axen me fu kill de hen'! W'ere I goen to fine aigg' to trade wid, w'en de hen' be gone? Is I got one picayune in de house fu trade wid, me?"
"Papa," piped the young Jacques, "w'at dat I yeard you drive in de yard, w'ile go?"
"Dat's it! W'en Lolotte would n' been talken' so fas', I could tole you 'bout dat job I got fu to-morrow. Dat was Joe Duplan's team of mule' an' wagon, wid t'ree bale' of cotton, w'at you yaird. I got to go soon in de mo'nin' wid dat load to de landin'. An' a man mus' eat w'at got to work; dat's sho."
Lolotte's bare brown feet made no sound upon the rough boards as she entered the room where Nonomme lay sick and sleeping. She lifted the coarse mosquito net from about him, sat down in the clumsy chair by the bedside, and began gently to fan the slumbering child.
Dusk was falling rapidly, as it does in the South. Lolotte's eyes grew round and big, as she watched the moon creep up from branch to branch of the moss-draped live-oak just outside her window. Presently the weary girl slept as profoundly as Nonomme. A little dog sneaked into the room, and socially licked her bare feet. The touch, moist and warm, awakened Lolotte.
The cabin was dark and quiet. Nonomme was crying softly, because the mosquitoes were biting him. In the room beyond, old Sylveste and the others slept. When Lolotte had quieted the child, she went outside to get a pail of cool, fresh water at the cistern. Then she crept into bed beside Nonomme, who slept again.
Lolotte's dreams that night pictured her father returning from work, and bringing luscious oranges home in his pocket for the sick child.
When at the very break of day she heard him astir in his room, a certain comfort stole into her heart. She lay and listened to the faint noises of his preparations to go out. When he had quitted the house, she waited to hear him drive the wagon from the yard.
She waited long, but heard no sound of horse's tread or wagon-wheel. Anxious, she went to the cabin door and looked out. The big mules were still where they had been fastened the night before. The wagon was there, too.
Her heart sank. She looked quickly along the low rafters supporting the roof of the narrow porch to where her father's fishing pole and pail always hung. Both were gone.
"'T ain' no use, 't ain' no use," she said, as she turned into the house with a look of something like anguish in her eyes.
When the spare breakfast was eaten and the dishes cleared away, Lolotte turned with resolute mien to the two little brothers.
"Veveste," she said to the older, "go see if dey got co'n in dat wagon fu feed deni mule'."
"Yes, dey got co'n. Papa done feed 'em, fur I see de co'n-cob in de trough, me."
"Den you goen he'p me hitch dem mule, to de wagon. Jacques, go down de lane an' ax Aunt Minty if she come set wid Nonomme w'ile I go drive dem mule' to de landin'."
Lolotte had evidently determined to undertake her father's work. Nothing could dissuade her; neither the children's astonishment nor Aunt Minty's scathing disapproval. The fat black negress came laboring into the yard just as Lolotte mounted upon the wagon.
"Git down f'om dah, chile! Is you plumb crazy?" she exclaimed.
"No, I ain't crazy; I'm hungry, Aunt Minty. We all hungry. Somebody got fur work in dis fam'ly."
"Dat ain't no work fur a gal w'at ain't
