"--Wouldn't any fair-minded person that knows what France was two or three hundred years ago--show you some day in the 'Album'--about as lief be descended from a good deal of that peasantry as from a good deal of that nobility? I should smile! Why, my dear--friend, the day's coming when the Acadians will be counted as good French blood as there is in Louisiana! They're the only white people that ever trod this continent--island or mainland--who never on their own account oppressed anybody. Some little depredation on their British neighbors, out of dogged faithfulness to their king and church,--that's the worst charge you can make. Look at their history! all poetry and pathos! Look at their character! brave, peaceable, loyal, industrious, home-loving"-- But Zosephine was looking at the speaker. Her face is kindled with the inspiration of his praise. His own eyes grow ardent. "Look at their women! Ah, Josephine, I'm looking at one! Don't turn away. --'One made up Of loveliness alone; A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon.' 'The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect woman nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command.' "You can't stop me, Josephine; it's got to come, and come right now. I'm a homeless man, Josephine, tired of wandering, with a heart bigger and weaker than I ever thought I had. I want you! I love you! I've never loved anybody before in my life except myself, and I don't find myself as lovely as I used. Oh, take me, Josephine! I don't ask you to love as if you'd never loved another. I'll take what's left, and be perfectly satisfied! I know you're ambitious, and I love you for that! But I do think I can give you a larger life. With you for a wife, I believe I could be a man you needn't be ashamed of. I'm already at the head of my line. Best record in the United States, Josephine, whether by the day, week, month, year, or locality. But if you don't like the line, I'll throw up the 'A. of U. I.' and go into any thing you say; for I want to lift you higher, Josephine. You're above me already, by nature and by rights, but I can lift you, I know I can. You've got no business keeping tavern; you're one of Nature's aristocrats. Yes, you are! and you're too young and lovely to stay a widow--in a State where there's more men than there's women. There's a good deal of the hill yet to climb before you start down. Oh, let's climb it together, Josephine! I'll make you happier than you are, Josephine; I haven't got a bad habit left; such as I had, I've quit; it don't pay. I don't drink, chew, smoke, tell lies, swear, quarrel, play cards, make debts, nor belong to a club--be my wife! Your daughter 'll soon be leaving you. You can't be happy alone. Take me! take me!" He urges his horse close--her face is averted--and lays his hand softly but firmly on her two, resting folded on the saddle-horn. They struggle faintly and