"But!"--the Creole lads in the street would say--"--her daughter!" and there would be lifting of arms, wringing of fingers, rolling of eyes, rounding of mouths, gaspings and clasping of hands. "So beautiful, beautiful, beautiful! White?--white like a water lily! White--like a magnolia!" Applause would follow, and invocation of all the saints to witness. And she could sing. "Sing?" (disdainfully)--"if a mocking-bird can _sing_! Ha!" They could not tell just how old she was; they "would give her about seventeen." Mother and daughter were very fond. The neighbors could hear them call each other pet names, and see them sitting together, sewing, talking happily to each other in the unceasing French way, and see them go out and come in together on their little tasks and errands. "'Tite Poulette," the daughter was called; she never went out alone. And who was this Madame John? "Why, you know!--she was"--said the wig-maker at the corner to Kristian Koppig--"I'll tell you. You know?--she was"--and the rest atomized off in a rasping whisper. She was the best yellow-fever nurse in a thousand yards round; but that is not what the wig-maker said. A block nearer the river stands a house altogether different from the remnant of old barracks. It is of frame, with a deep front gallery over which the roof extends. It has become a den of Italians, who sell fuel by daylight, and by night are up to no telling what extent of deviltry. This was once the home of a gay gentleman, whose first name happened to be John. He was a member of the Good Children Social Club. As his parents lived with him, his wife would, according to custom, have been called Madame John but he had no wife. His father died, then his mother; last of all, himself. As he is about to be off, in comes Madame John, with 'Tïte Poulette, then an infant, on her arm. "Zalli," said he, "I am going." She bowed her head, and wept. "You have been very faithful to me, Zalli." She wept on. "Nobody to take care of you now, Zalli." Zalli only went on weeping. "I want to give you this house, Zalli; it is for you and the little one." An hour after, amid the sobs of Madame John, she and the "little one" inherited the house, such as it was. With the fatal caution which characterizes ignorance, she sold the property and placed the proceeds in a bank, which made haste to fail. She put on widow's weeds, and wore them still when 'Tite Poulette "had seventeen," as the frantic lads would say.