"_You_ gwine git all dat money? Sakes! W'at you reckon Ma'ame Verchette say? I know she gwine mos' take a fit w'en she heah dat." But Chouchoute's mother did not "mos' take a fit" when she heard of her son's good fortune. The white and wasted hand which she rested upon the boy's black curls trembled a little, it is true, and tears of emotion came into her tired eyes. This step seemed to her the beginning of better things for her fatherless boy. They lived quite at the end of this little French village, which was simply two long rows of very old frame houses, facing each other closely across a dusty roadway. Their home was a cottage, so small and so humble that it just escaped the reproach of being a cabin. Every one was kind to Madame Verchette. Neighbors ran in of mornings to help her with her work--she could do so little for herself. And often the good priest, Père Antoine, came to sit with her and talk innocent gossip. To say that Wash was fond of Madame Verchette and her son is to be poor in language to express devotion. He worshiped her as if she were already an angel in Paradise. Chouchoute was a delightful young fellow; no one could help loving him. His heart was as warm and cheery as his own southern sunbeams. If he was born with an unlucky trick of forgetfulness--or better, thoughtlessness--no one ever felt much like blaming him for it, so much did it seem a part of his happy, careless nature. And why was that faithful watch-dog, Wash, always at Marse Chouchoute's heels, if it were not to be hands and ears and eyes to him, more than half the time? One beautiful spring night, Chouchoute, on his way to the station, was riding along the road that skirted the river. The clumsy mail-bag that lay before him across the pony was almost empty; for the Cloutierville mail was a meagre and unimportant one at best. But he did not know this. He was not thinking of the mail, in fact; he was only feeling that life was very agreeable this delicious spring night. There were cabins at intervals upon the road--most of them darkened, for the hour was late. As he approached one of these, which was more pretentious than the others, he heard the sound of a fiddle, and saw lights through the openings of the house. It was so far from the road that when he stopped his horse and peered through the darkness he could not recognize the dancers who passed before the open doors and windows. But he knew this was Gros-Léon's ball, which he had heard the boys talking about all the week. Why should he not go and stand in the doorway an instant and exchange a word with the dancers? Chouchoute dismounted, fastened his horse to the fence-post, and proceeded towards the house. The room, crowded with people young and old, was long and low, with rough beams across the ceiling, blackened by smoke and time. Upon the high mantelpiece a single coal-oil lamp burned, and none too brightly.