Renée might have left St. Louis yesterday, so little had it changed in the two years. The levee was in a better condition, some new docks had been built. And, as usual, there was the throng to see the boats come in, pouring down from the Rue de la Tour and the Rue de la Place into the Rue Royale. Yet it was like an everyday sight at New Orleans. Only the welcomes gave it a rapture she had never known before. Madame Marchand had her arms about her. Other old friends of girlhood, wives and mothers now, voices so confused, yet so glad, that it was music to listen to them. It was old St. Louis, but the little girl had gone forever. Madame Valbonais, prettier than ever and with a style that was foreign to the small town. Monsieur, grown a little stouter, fine and strong, yet smiling with a face of gladness. Gaspard Denys, keeping close watch over the mulatto nurse in gay coif and bright gown, who had in her arms the little son of madame. A triumphal procession escorted her home. How curiously dry the streets were, and almost prim after the southern irregularity; the riotous tangle of vines, the balconies full of ladies with fans, chatting and waving to the passers-by, throwing coquettish smiles. The old French air that had grown settled in fifty years, the queer houses, and oh, yes, here was the garden, and Mère Lunde watching at the gate, more bent than ever, crying tears of joy, and in her broken voice repeating, “Oh, my little one! Oh, my little one!” Yet it was strange, too, after all that luxuriance of growth and bloom and fragrance, queer, crooked, busy streets, gay wine shops with open doors and tables of men within playing cards or fiddling or singing songs. Birds of every color and richest plumage filling the air with melody, iridescent lizards creeping about winking with their bright black eyes, alligators sunning themselves in the ooze, snakes gliding about unmolested, throngs of almost naked children shining in their blackness, ready to sing and dance, turn a dozen somersaults or walk upside down for a copper—the vivid panorama still floated before her eyes and gave her queer, mixed impressions. Most of the people seemed to have stood still. Two or three very old ones had died and several babies, but others had come to replace them. Not a new house had been built; the stockade was getting dilapidated. The Government House had been painted afresh, but the old court-house was dingy enough. The priest’s house had been repaired, the little garden was lovely with roses that were always blooming, and the Chouteau grounds were like a beautiful park, so well kept and thrifty. “Oh,” André said, “I wonder if you will be sick with longing for all the gayety and loveliness we have left behind?” “Why, then, we can go there again,” she answered merrily, with bright, contented eyes and a winsome smile. “It is so restful here. And Papa Gaspard is so happy.”