You think of going to New Orleans in the spring. Certainly, the spring is the time to go. When you find yourself there go some day for luncheon--if they haven't moved it, there is talk of that,--go to the Christian Women's Exchange, already mentioned, in the Rue Bourbon,--French Quarter. You step immediately from the sidewalk into the former drawing-room of a house built early in the century as a fashionable residence. That at least is its aspect. Notice, for instance, in the back parlor, crowded now, like the front one, with eating-tables, a really interesting old wooden mantelpiece. Of course this is not the way persons used to go in old times. They entered by the porte-cochere and open carriage-way upon which these drawing-rooms still open by several glass doors on your right. Step out there. You find a veranda crowded with neat white-clothed tables. Before some late alterations there was a great trellis full of green sunshine and broken breezes entangled among vines of trumpet-creeper and the Scuppernong grape. Here you will be waited on, by small, blue-calico-robed damsels of Methodist unsophistication and Presbyterian propriety, to excellent refreshment; only, if you know your soul's true interest, eschew their fresh bread and insist on having yesterday's. However, that is a matter of taste there, and no matter at all here. All I need to add is that there are good apartments overhead to be rented to women too good for this world, and that in the latter end of April, 1884, Zosephine and Marguerite Beausoleil here made their home. The tavern was sold. The old life was left far behind. They had done that dreadful thing that everybody deprecates and everybody likes to do--left the country and come to live in the city. And Zosephine was well pleased. A man who had tried and failed to be a merchant in the city, he and his wife, took the tavern; so Zosephine had not reduced the rural population--had not sinned against "stastistics." Besides, she had the good conscience of having fled from Mr. Tarbox--put U. and I. apart, as it were--and yet without being so hid but a suitor's proper persistency could find her. Just now he was far away prosecuting the commercial interests of Claude's one or two inventions; but he was having great success; he wrote once or twice--but got no reply--and hoped to be back within a month. When Marguerite, after her mother's receipt of each of these letters, thought she saw a cloud on her brow, Zosephine explained, with a revival of that old look of sweet self-command which the daughter so loved to see, that they contained matters of business not at all to be called troubles. But the little mother did not show the letters. She could not; Marguerite did not even know their writer had changed his business. As to Claude, his name was never mentioned. Each supposed the other was ignorant that he was in the city, and because he was never mentioned each one knew the other was thinking of him.