"Down, Pluto! down, Achille!" cried the shrill voice of a woman who emerged from the house, holding upon her arm a delicate baby of a year or two. There was only an instant of unrecognition. "_Mais_ Doudouce, that ent you, _comment!_ Well, if any one would tole me this mornin'! Git a chair, 'Tit Jules. That's Mista Doudouce, f'om 'way yonda Natchitoches w'ere yo' maman use' to live. _Mais_, you ent change'; you' lookin' well, Doudouce." He shook hands in a slow, undemonstrative way, and seated himself clumsily upon the hide-bottomed chair, laying his broad-rimmed felt hat upon the floor beside him. He was very uncomfortable in the cloth Sunday coat which he wore. "I had business that call' me to Marksville," he began, "an' I say to myse'f, '_Tiens_, you can't pass by without tell' 'em all howdy.'" "_Par exemple!_ w'at Jules would said to that! _Mais_, you' lookin' well; you ent change', Doudouce." "An' you' lookin' well, Mentine, Jis' the same Mentine." He regretted that he lacked talent to make the lie bolder. She moved a little uneasily, and felt upon her shoulder for a pin with which to fasten the front of her old gown where it lacked a button. She had kept the baby in her lap. Doudouce was wondering miserably if he would have known her outside her home. He would have known her sweet, cheerful brown eyes, that were not changed; but her figure, that had looked so trim in the wedding gown, was sadly misshapen. She was brown, with skin like parchment, and piteously thin. There were lines, some deep as if old age had cut them, about the eyes and mouth. "An' how you lef' 'em all, yonda?" she asked, in a high voice that had grown shrill from screaming at children and dogs. "They all well. It's mighty li'le sickness in the country this yea'. But they been lookin' fo' you up yonda, straight along, Mentine." "Don't talk, Doudouce, it's no chance; with that po' we' out piece o' lan' w'at Jules got. He say, anotha yea' like that, he's goin' sell out, him." The children were clutching her on either side, their persistent gaze always fastened upon Doudouce. He tried without avail to make friends with them. Then Jules came home from the field, riding the mule with which he had worked, and which he fastened outside the gate. "Yere's Doudouce f'om Natchitoches, Jules," called out Mentine, "he stop' to tell us howdy, _en passant_." The husband mounted to the gallery and the two men shook hands; Doudouce listlessly, as he had done with Mentine; Jules with some bluster and show of cordiality. "Well, you' a lucky man, you," he exclaimed with his swagger air, "able to broad like that, _encore!_ You could n't do that if you had half a dozen mouth' to feed, _allez!_"