"You Artemise!" shouted Aunt Florindy, the cook, who was passing through the hall with a batch of newly baked light bread. "She's a-lyin', mist'ess, if dey ever was! _You_ foun' dem turkeys?" upon the child. "Whar was you at, de whole blesse' time? Warn't you stan'in' plank up agin de back o' de hen-'ous'? Never budged a inch? Don't jaw me down, gal; don't jaw me!" Artemise was only gazing at Aunt Florindy with unruffled calm. "I warn't gwine tell on 'er, but arter dat untroof, I boun' to." "Let her alone, Aunt Florindy," Madame interfered. "Where are the turkeys, Artemise?" "Yon'a," she simply articulated, bringing the pump-handle motion of her arm into play. "Where 'yonder'?" Madame demanded, a little impatiently. "In uh hen-'ous'!" Sure enough! The three missing turkeys had been accidentally locked up in the morning when the chickens were fed. Artemise, for some unknown reason, had hidden herself during the search behind the hen-house, and had heard their muffled gobble. MADAME CÉLESTIN'S DIVORCE. Madame Célestin always wore a neat and snugly fitting calico wrapper when she went out in the morning to sweep her small gallery. Lawyer Paxton thought she looked very pretty in the gray one that was made with a graceful Watteau fold at the back: and with which she invariably wore a bow of pink ribbon at the throat. She was always sweeping her gallery when lawyer Paxton passed by in the morning on his way to his office in St. Denis Street. Sometimes he stopped and leaned over the fence to say good-morning at his ease; to criticise or admire her rosebushes; or, when he had time enough, to hear what she had to say. Madame Célestin usually had a good deal to say. She would gather up the train of her calico wrapper in one hand, and balancing the broom gracefully in the other, would go tripping down to where the lawyer leaned, as comfortably as he could, over her picket fence. Of course she had talked to him of her troubles. Every one knew Madame Célestin's troubles. "Really, madame," he told her once, in his deliberate, calculating, lawyer--tone, "it's more than human nature--woman's nature--should be called upon to endure. Here you are, working your fingers off"--she glanced down at two rosy finger-tips that showed through the rents in her baggy doe-skin gloves--"taking in sewing; giving music lessons; doing God knows what in the way of manual labor to support yourself and those two little ones"--Madame Célestin's pretty face beamed with satisfaction at this enumeration of her trials. "You right, Judge. Not a picayune, not one, not one, have I lay my eyes on in the pas' fo' months that I can say Célestin give it to me or sen' it to me." "The scoundrel!" muttered lawyer Paxton in his beard. "An' _pourtant_," she resumed, "they say he's making money down roun' Alexandria w'en he wants to work." "I dare say you have n't seen him for months?" suggested the lawyer. "It's good six month' since I see a sight of Célestin," she admitted.