"Well, I'm goin' do some'in' wid dat fiddle, _va!_" returned the daughter, only half mollified. "Mine w'at I say." So once when there were great carryings-on up at the big plantation--no end of ladies and gentlemen from the city, riding, driving, dancing, and making music upon all manner of instruments--Fifine, with the fiddle in its flannel bag, stole away and up to the big house where these festivities were in progress. No one noticed at first the little barefoot girl seated upon a step of the veranda and watching, lynx-eyed, for her opportunity. "It's one fiddle I got for sell," she announced, resolutely, to the first who questioned her. It was very funny to have a shabby little girl sitting there wanting to sell a fiddle, and the child was soon surrounded. The lustreless instrument was brought forth and examined, first with amusement, but soon very seriously, especially by three gentlemen: one with very long hair that hung down, another with equally long hair that stood up, the third with no hair worth mentioning. These three turned the fiddle upside down and almost inside out. They thumped upon it, and listened. They scraped upon it, and listened. They walked into the house with it, and out of the house with it, and into remote corners with it. All this with much putting of heads together, and talking together in familiar and unfamiliar languages. And, finally, they sent Fifine away with a fiddle twice as beautiful as the one she had brought, and a roll of money besides! The child was dumb with astonishment, and away she flew. But when she stopped beneath a big chinaberry-tree, to further scan the roll of money, her wonder was redoubled. There was far more than she could count, more than she had ever dreamed of possessing. Certainly enough to top the old cabin with new shingles; to put shoes on all the little bare feet and food into the hungry mouths. Maybe enough--and Fifine's heart fairly jumped into her throat at the vision--maybe enough to buy Blanchette and her tiny calf that Unc' Siméon wanted to sell! "It's jis like you say, Fifine," murmured old Cléophas, huskily, when he had played upon the new fiddle that night. "It's one fine fiddle; an' like you say, it shine' like satin. But some way or udder, 't ain' de same. Yair, Fifine, take it--put it 'side. I b'lieve, me, I ain' goin' play de fiddle no mo'." BEYOND THE BAYOU. The bayou curved like a crescent around the point of land on which La Folle's cabin stood. Between the stream and the hut lay a big abandoned field, where cattle were pastured when the bayou supplied them with water enough. Through the woods that spread back into unknown regions the woman had drawn an imaginary line, and past this circle she never stepped. This was the form of her only mania.