"In de night," Pierre continued, "I yaired some noise on de winder. I go open, an' dere Placide, standin' wid his big boot' on, an' his w'ip w'at he knocked wid on de winder, an' his hoss all saddle'. Oh, my po' li'le chile! He say, 'Pierre, I yaired say Mr. Luke William' want his house pent down in Orville. I reckon I go git de job befo' somebody else teck it.' I say, 'You come straight back, Placide? 'He say, 'Don' look fer me.' An' w'en I ax 'im w'at I goin' tell to my li'le chile, he say, 'Tell Euphrasie Placide know better 'an anybody livin' w'at goin' make her happy.' An' he start 'way; den he come back an' say, 'Tell dat man '--I don' know who he was talk' 'bout--k tell 'im he ain't goin' learn nuttin' to a creole.' _Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!_ I don' know w'at all dat mean." He was holding the half-fainting Euphrasie in his arms, and stroking her hair. "I always yaired say he was one no-'count creole. I nevair want to believe dat." "Don't--don't say that again, papa," she whisperingly entreated, speaking in French. "Placide has saved me!" "He has save' you f'om w'at, Euphrasie?" asked her father, in dazed astonishment. "From sin," she replied to him under her breath. "I don' know w'at all dat mean," the old man muttered, bewildered, as he arose and walked out on the gallery. Offdean had taken coffee in his room, and would not wait for breakfast. When he went to bid Euphrasie good-by, she sat beside the table with her head bowed upon her arm. He took her hand and said good-by to her, but she did not look up. "Euphrasie," he asked eagerly, "I may come back? Say that I may--after a while." She gave him no answer, and he leaned down and pressed his cheek caressingly and entreatingly against her soft thick hair. "May I, Euphrasie?" he begged. "So long as you do not tell me no, I shall come back, dearest one." She still made him no reply, but she did not tell him no. So he kissed her hand and her cheek,--what he could touch of it, that peeped out from her folded arm,--and went away. An hour later, when Offdean passed through Natchitoches, the old town was already ringing with the startling news that Placide had been dismissed by his _fiancée_, and the wedding was off, information which the young creole was taking the trouble to scatter broadcast as he went. IN AND OUT OF OLD NATCHITOCHES. Precisely at eight o'clock every morning except Saturdays and Sundays, Mademoiselle Suzanne St. Denys Godolph would cross the railroad trestle that spanned Bayou Boispourri. She might have crossed in the flat which Mr. Alphonse Laballière kept for his own convenience; but the method was slow and unreliable; so, every morning at eight, Mademoiselle St. Denys Godolph crossed the trestle. She taught public school in a picturesque little white frame structure that stood upon Mr. Laballière's land, and hung upon the very brink of the bayou.