?fHE 5T0R« 

OF BABETTE 











THE STORY OF BABETTE 







A LITTLE CREOLE GIRL 







RUTH McENERY STUART 







ILLUSTRATED BY 



ALICE BARBER STEPHENS 









NEW YORK AND LONDON 

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 



1898 







Copyright, 1894, by Harper & Brothers. 

All rights reserved. 







&ffectfonatel2 EnscvHiefc 



TO THB 



LITTLE GIRLS OF NEW ORLEANS 



BY THEIR FRIEND 



THE AUTHOR 







M15CML72 







ILLUSTRATIONS 







BABETTE Frontispiece 



"THE LE CHARM ANT FAMILY WATCHING THE 



MARDI-GRAS PROCESSION" Facing page 2 



'"BABETTE IS LOST!'" » •• 24 



"DID ANY ONE NOTICE A TALL FIGURE, WRAPPED 



IN A HEAVY GRAY SHAWL?" •• " 36 



"THERE WAS NOT ONE OF THE LOT WHO DID NOT 



COUNT THE OLD WOMAN A FAMOUS FORTUNE- 

TELLER" •• •• 54 



" HER LITTLE COMPANIONS, WHOSE PEDIGREE OF 



BEAUTY WAS AS LONG AS HER OWN" " "62 



"ONLY A HARD PALE FACE BETRAYED THE DEEP 



ANXIETY OF HER HEART" " " 72 



"TANTE ANGELE" " " 94 



BABETTE AND " LITTLE MARIE" . . . .' " " 102 



"NOUTE MADE DOLL-HOUSES FOR BABETTE" ..." " 120 



"A WONDERLAND BETTER THAN A FAIRY'S WOOD 134 



" ' BUT FOR MAMZELLE THEY SAY SHE WOULD NOT 



BE HERE NOW" '« "146 



"'BUT I AM NOT MADAME BONDURANTE'S NIECE'" " " 166 

"•HOW SWEETLY SHE WOULD FIT IN— JUST SO-BE- 



TWEEN THE TWO, ARTHE AND FELICIE r " . . " " 182 



"THIS ILLUMINATING BEAM FELL FOR A MOMENT 



UPON BABETTE'S FACE " "200 



"THE ACKNOWLEDGED BELLE OF THE OLD 



FRENCH CITY" » "206 







THE STORY OF BABETTE 







CHAPTER I 







It was Mardi-Gras night in New Orleans. 

Canal Street, as far as the eye could reach 

in either direction — out towards the river or 

back in the direction of the swamp lands — 

was a surging mass of people. 



The deep balconies, the galeries of the old 

French town, overhanging the banquettes on 

either side the way, were crowded beyond 

their strength, and many would have fallen 

but for the temporary support of heavy tim- 

bers put in for the occasion. 



Above the heads of the crowds little street 

urchins, newsboys, beggars, gamins — white, 

black, yellow, brown, and all the shades be- 

tween — sat perched like chattering sparrows 

on every available projection of lamp-post 

or tree, many even clinging about the tops 

of street-cars. Others, mounting the granite 







pedestal of Henry Clay's statue at the cor- 

ner, steadied themselves by embracing the 

statesman's legs; while one or two of the 

more adventurous had even scaled his lofty 

figure and sat astride his broad bronze 

shoulders. 



The occasional turning of the great elec- 

tric searchlight in the Pickwick Club build- 

ing revealed a rippling sea of happy smiling 

faces along the line of galeries opposite, all 

wearing, no matter what their race or condi- 

tion, the holiday expression which showed 

them in touch with the carnival spirit. 



On a special balcony, diagonally opposite 

the searchlight, somewhat nearer the river, 

so placed that they were often within range 

of the revolving beam, occupying all but 

two of the first dozen chairs, sat the good 

old Creole family of the good old Creole 

name of ; let us call it Le Charmant. 



The Maman, bonne Maman, and a round 

half-dozen of the last generation of little 

Le Charmants were there — an interesting 

row, each one a picture — and all as much 

alike as any row of black-eyed peas — while 

in the last chair towards Royal Street sat a 

stately old gray-haired black woman — An- 

gele. 









•THE LE CHARMANT FAMILY WATCHING THE MARDI-GRAS 

PROCESSION " 







Her starched tignon of gay plaid, rising 

above her kindly face and standing alert in 

knot and frill, like ears pricked to listen, 

gave the impression that her office was that 

of watch -dog, and the rapid movement of 

her quick eye along the line, the alacrity 

with which she pressed back into her chair 

any one of the children who leaned too 

heavily forward on the railing, with her 

quick little bark of alarm "Assi toil Tu torn- 

bez /" confirmed the impression. 



The bark said, in " gumbo French," " Sit 

down, before you fall!" but its tone said 

other things. 



It said, lquo; I love these children, and noth- 

ing can happen to them while I am near.rquo; 



A well-dressed, prosperous, and happy-look- 

ing line they were as they sat, jabbering and 

jabbering, sometimes in French— but often- 

er in broken English — their best, in polite 

respect to the Americans among whom they 

sat. 



The great Mystick Krewe had already 

passed along the street and disappeared, but 

it would soon come again in another direc- 

tion. 



And so the waiting crowd remained in- 

tact, while animated discussions regarding 







the comparative merits of this with former 

pageants filled up the interval of waiting. 



The comments of the Le Charmant chil- 

dren were much like hundreds of others who 

exclaimed enthusiastically in the wake of the 

mystic wonder. 



" Well, me, I think it is the finest Mardi- 

Gras we ever had !" exclaimed Marie, a little 

maid of eight. 



" What you say, G'an ?" she added, as she 

leaned over the soft lap of her grandmother. 



(When 'Toinette — tall, dimpled, beautiful 

'Toinette, the eldest, who sits next her moth- 

er to-night — first began to talk, she had called 

her grandmother " G'an," her best effort to 

please an American nurse, and " G'an " she 

had been to all the little ones since.) 



" Of co'se, 'tis very nice for now," granted 

the grandmother, in reply to Marie's question, 

" but not like those we had befo' the war, 







no 







"Oh — h — h!" protested 'Toinette, laugh- 

ing mischievously. "G'an don't find nothing 

nice that don't come before the war. Any- 

how," she added, roguishly, "I think me, 

I am nice, and I was not here before the 

war. For what you love Babette so much, 

G'an ? She was not here before the war." 







The grandmother smiled. " You all noth- 

ing but poor trash ! I don't love none of 

you I" she responded fondly, taking little 

Babette's dimpled face between her own fat 

palms. 



" G'an don't love Babette, no," she added. 

" Poor lill be'bce ! Mus' grow up an' be her 

own lill nigger ! Before the war, when God 

send gran'ma one lill be'bee, He always at the 

same time send one lill nigger to wait on 

him. Ask Tante Angele ! She tell you !" 

The black woman laughed softly. 

" Yas, 'tis true." The tignon nodded. "Wait 

we come home, I tell you." 



" No, tell it now," Marie insists; and so the 

old woman begins : 



" Well ? You want I tell it now ? 

" W'en yo' oncle Adolphe come, in t'ree 

munt come my boy, Jean, an' den, w'en yo' 

aunt Natalie is born, I got de nex' day my 

Sophie — Sophie, she stay wid yo' aunt Natalie 

in Paris now — an' den come yo' aunt Fifine 

an' my Rosa — an' after Rosa I got Ma- 

thilde, an' Mathilde she die, an' yo' gran'ma 

she got — lemme t'ink, how dat come — oh, 

yas, yo' gran'ma she got yo aunt Marie, an' 

den yo' oncle Aristide — an' dat same very 

day yo' oncle Aristide is born come my two 







black tween, Louis an' Louise — an' den we 

ain't had no mo', w'ite nor black, for five 

year, an' den yo' maman is born, an' de nex' 

St. Joseph night my Cora, po' chile — Now 

Cora, she is gone, ole Angele have to start 

again, play nurse." 



The old woman had gone over this same 

record a hundred times before, but she never 

wearied of the recital. 



" But," she continued, tightening her arm 

about the little one next her, " so long Tante 

Angele can hoi' out, all doze chillens got one 

nigger anyhow. But she make 'em min', yas ! 

Befo' de war I used to b'longs to you all 

w'ite folks, now you all b'longs to me. All 

doze no 'count lazy w'ite chillens b'longs to 

me. All but Babette ; we have to let gran'- 

ma have dat las' li'll lagniappe bebfc. Better 

han' me dat cake-bag, yas. Lemme hoi' it 

— or pass it at yo' maman, so. Too much 

dem cream pauf is bad, yas." 



During this long recital, although the two 

oldest children had perhaps paid small heed, 

four pairs of eager black eyes were never 

withdrawn from the speaker's face. To them 

Tante Angele was an oracle, capable of pro- 

ducing anything at will, from a wonder-tale 

laden with shivers and starts to a lullaby so 







soft and sleepy that not a child of the six 

had ever heard the very end of it. 



Though all the babies had been the grand- 

mother's favorites in turn, Babette, doubly 

endeared to her as her own namesake and 

godchild, and, too, by a delicate babyhood 

from which she was just emerging, was the 

very apple of her eye. 



The blue silk cord and tassels which she 

wore about her chubby waist, in token of 

certain religious vows of consecration, were 

the work of the grandmother's loving fingers 

— " the last work for my old eyes and hands," 

she had said, as she laid the silver knitting- 

needles away with her discarded jewels to 

keep for " 'Tite Babette." 



But into this last little love-task she had 

interwoven, with a feeling of pious devo- 

tion, dainty copies of special prayers, invo- 

cations to preferred saints in behalf of the 

tiny wearer, with her full name and date of 

vows assumed, printed on fine silk paper 

doubled so as to form the bodies of the or- 

namental tassels, which were finally skilfully 

covered over and over with a dainty silken 

web of blue. This was a secret which only 

the grandmother and the saints themselves 

were supposed to know, and when she had 







taken the beautiful finished work to the old 

French cathedral to have it blessed, accord- 

ing to custom, she felt that it carried assur- 

ances of other blessings than even the holy- 

father knew. 



As they sit in line on the crowded gallery 

to-night awaiting the return of the Mystick 

Krewe, Babette sits next her grandmother 

jabbering as fast as her lips can move, to 

the infinite delight and amusement of the 

entire family. 



It is the little girl's first view of the grand 

parade — the first night in all her young life, 

in fact, that eight o'clock has found her out 

of her little lace-canopied crib. It is nine 

now. 



She had begged to come — begged, with a 

little quiver playing all around the dimples 

in her cheeks while promising in quavering 

voice to stay awake. And Tante Angele — 

Tante Angele, who was always on the chil- 

dren's side in everything — had plead for her, 

even volunteering to carry her all the way 

home in case she should go to sleep. 



And then the grandmother had decided 

the matter. 



" Never mind. She is comingwith nenaine. 

You look after your own sleepy-heads. I'll 







take care of my baby ; and if they don't look 

sharp, she'll talk over the snoring heads of 

Marie and Arthe, and maybe three nine- 

o'clock babies. Clothilde, she make friends 

with the sand -man every night time the 

clock is on the nine strike— so look sharp !" 



It was a long time before the procession 

came again, and the grandmother's prophecy 

seemed likely to come true. Marie and Ar- 

the had grown suspiciously quiet and still. 

and Clothilde, ten-year-old Clothilde, was 

actually nodding. Only three times, though, 

the bobbing head went down before a fresh 

hum of voices lifted all sleepy heads as if 

with a sudden shock. 



Then there was a restless movement on all 

the galleries — a concerted bending forward 

of bodies and inquiring questions: "Which 

way?" "Where?" "Who says so?" "Oh, 

pshaw !" " Nothing but a crazy lot of smart- 

ies trying to raise an excitement." 



But no ! A sudden hurrying and scurry- 

ing, hither and thither, of the now loud-laugh- 

ins and talking crowd afoot; now two or 

three mounted police slowly, carefully clear- 

ing the way ; and now — a blase of light ! 

"Ah-h-h-h!" "Oh-h-h-h!" "Ah-h-h-h!" The 

exclamation passes like a great wave from 







10 







one gallery to another, until its echoes are 

drowned by the stirring music of the band. 



The Krewe has come again. The first float 

passes; another, and yet another, and still they 

come, until — what is this ? Bows, hand-kisses, 

a shower of candies — real French bonbons — 

from the merry maskers of a special car over 

the shoulders and into the laps of the little 

Le Charmants ! 



They were all wide enough awake now ! 

And here they come again ; and once more — 

dragees, marsh-mallows, "kisses," crystallized 

figs, thrown backward this time, for the float 

has passed, and still they fall with true aim 

into the hats and over the faces of the now 

merrily laughing and waving group. Other 

candies were flying in other directions to 

other people, or to anybody ; but these came 

by evident intention to the little Creoles. 



Float followed float, and presently the pro- 

cession was only a pillar of fire moving slow- 

ly out Canal Street, and soon even that was 

gone ; and Mardi-Gras, the mad festival, ex- 

cepting to such as followed the maskers into 

theatre and ballroom, was over — over for an- 

other year. 



The Le Charmant father, we have noticed, 

was not visible to-night. Like many fathers, 







II 







husbands, brothers, and beaux, he was sud- 

denly " called off on business " on Mardi-Gras 

evening. If they are called to render loyal, 

service to Comus, is not this the " business " 

of the occasion ? Who says they tell stories? 

Of course, no one knows who compose the 

Mystick Krewe. This is half its mystic 

charm. One may suspect things as much 

as he chooses, and even feel personally satis- 

fied that certain facts are true ; but that is 

not knowing. 



The little Le Charmants looked very wise 

and mysterious this evening, when their 

Human said, as they sat waiting for the 

crowd to disperse : " Well, me, I am sat- 

isfied !" 



" And I know for what you are satisfied !" 

exclaimed Toinette, chuckling and winking 



slyly. 



"And me, too, I know !" added another ; 

and, in a stage whisper, " You r^ognize some- 



body /" 



Then all the children gathered closer about 

the mother — there was plenty of standing- 

room now — begging her to tell which one 

was " popa." 



" I t'ink, me, he was one of doze apple, 

suggested Tante Angele, aside to Marie; 







" biccause it was one apple what t'row doze 

bonbons /" 



"Mais, one grenade" (pomegranate)" threw 

more bonbons than the apple," said wise 

Toinette ; " and, besides, I am sho' — sho 'twas 

not the grenade, because popa is mo' littler 

than that grenade." 



"You are all wrong!" The mother was 

assorting bonbons in the palm of her left 

hand, and passing to each her favorite candy 

— "You are all wrong! 'Twas not one of 

those who threw bonbons. You don't catch 

your father so easily. He thought he could 

fool me. Mais, I know him ! Here, pass 

those gum-drops to Angele, Marie." 



" T'ank you, ma'am. You see dem mardi- 

gras dey know po' ole Tante Angele ain't 

got no teet', an' dey put in some sof gum- 

drop for her." The old woman chuckled 

lightly as she slipped one of the yielding con- 

fections between her own lips, and, reaching 

along the line, distributed the other three in 

like manner to the three little ones. 



"You know, always," the mother was con- 

tinuing to explain, " when your popa finds 

something very droll, he always make so/" 

She rubbed her palms together and shook 

her shoulders — " II fait toujours comme qa." 







13 







The children all recognized the imitation. 



" Well, when those oranges and grenades 

and apples threw bonbons, I saw one fat lemon 

r-rub his hands like that, and shake himself 

comme ca" 



Another representation of the movement. 

"Ah-h-h! He thought he was able to fool 

me. Mais, I know him /" 



Even the grandmother and Tante Angele 

joined delightedly in the children's glee over 

the discovery. 



The procession had represented " The 

Five Senses," and it was from the fruit-laden 

float following in Ceres' train that the show- 

er of candies had come. 



The sense of taste had been elaborately 

illustrated by a great profusion of such 

things as delight the palate. 



While from one float animated mushrooms, 

asparagus, and common vegetables without 

number bowed and waved to admiring mul- 

titudes, another was alive with reeling bot- 

tles, staggering demijohns and glasses, while 

on a third were gleeful figs, waddling water- 

melons, frisking cantelopes, and a rollicking 

lot of oranges, lemons, and smaller fruits. 



It had been a gorgeous pageant, but it was 

gone. And now for getting home. 







14 







The Le Charmants had ridden up to Canal 

Street in the street car. The family carriage 

would not hold all. The car came nearly to 

the door. It was so much more jolly to go 

out into the crowd. To get from the balcony 

to the car now, however, was no small mat- 

ter. 



The gallery back of them was quite desert- 

ed when they finally turned, a miniature pro- 

cession in themselves, to take their chances 

with the rabble. 



The mother takes the lead, and as she hes- 

itates a moment in the street door below, the 

corner light falling upon her reveals a face of 

remarkable beauty. She is so pretty — so 

bright and happy and young — and as fresh 

and blooming as the two lovely daughters, 

who take an arm on either side while they 

start out three abreast. 



So they lead the way, all three calling out 

in a breath to the others to keep together — 

and, funnily enough, by a common impulse 

they all say it in French. 



Why not? The most rigorous politeness 

would not require one to conform to the 

speech of passers-by. 



The language is catching, and in a twin- 

kling the entire column are chattering like so 







15 







many magpies, excepting that the soft voices 

and liquid syllables of the musical tongue 

would put all talking birds of the earth to 

shame. 



" We ought to have waited longer," the 

grandmother says, as the mother, slipping on 

a bit of banana-peel, embraces her neighbors 

promiscuously a moment, and then, recov- 

ering herself, starts on laughing. 



The crowd seems really to be growing 

more dense again as the galleries pour their 

masses out front doors to supplant car and 

carriage loads going in all directions. 



Tante Angele has special charge of little 

Arthe, whom she holds tightly aloft while she 

whispers marvel tales into her ear to keep 

her awake, or to engage her in laughing at 

the drowsy gait of the two next older, who 

she declares to be walking in their sleep, and 

who, indeed, in their constant denials of all 

sleepiness, are barely saved from stumbling. 



The grandmother insisted on keeping Ba- 

bette's hand. And so they go on. 



Good-humor is the rule of the American 

crowd, and the air of the Southern carnival 

is seldom torn by a harsh word. And so to- 

night, when suddenly a loud voice shouted 

" Move back I" and the tall form of a police- 







16 







man loomed up before them, the surging 

crowd, gasping first as with a single breath, 

and shrinking backward involuntarily upon 

itself, became in a twinkling a scene of 

panic. 



Some one — a woman — had fallen across 

the curbing, and others were stumbling over 

her. Farther back a dozen or more, jammed 

against a show-case, were terror-stricken at 

the combined dangers of broken glass and 

threatened suffocation. 



A little woman, holding in her arms a year- 

old baby, threw it, in her fright, to a tall man 

several feet away, and he held it safely aloft 

while the youngster, apparently taking the 

whole thing as a joke, roared with laughter. 



After the first rush upward from Dauphine 

Street, increasing the peril, the curious sud- 

denly took fright. 



An opening now appeared at the corner. 



The victim of the accident, happily more 

frightened than hurt, went off limping and 

laughing. 



The tall man with the baby, seeing over 

the heads about him that the accident had 

not been serious, called now playfully for 

some one to claim his charge. 



The little mother, unable to hold her own 







17 







in the crush, had been pressed some distance 

back, and it was perhaps a full minute before 

she could make herself heard. 



The spirit of fun was in the air. The tall 

man was as full of it as the rest, and seeing 

that the mother had not instantly come for- 

ward, he forthwith began a mock auction. 

"Who wants to buy a baby? How much 

am I offered for a baby? How much for the 

baby, clothes and rattle thrown in? What 

am I offered? Ah-h-h !"— seeing the moth- 

er's two slender hands raised some distance 

awa y — "how much, ma'am? A thousand 

thanks, you say? Ah, well — Sold!" This, 

as the youngster, who begins to whimper at 

sight of his mother, is restored to her grate- 

ful arms. 



But in this din and confusion what has be- 

come of our merry Creoles? Were they 

standing with the others around the tall man, 

laughing at the baby auction? Surely they 

were not over in the show-window jam, or 

—look! Perhaps they are yonder, scarce 

twenty feet away, where people are running 

and some one is calling for water. 



Yes, we have found them. 



The grandmother, overcome from the press- 

ure and lack of breathing-space, has fainted. 







iS 







She lies unconscious in old Tante Angele's 

arms. 



The children are frightened and crying. 

Their mother, chafing the old lady's hands,, 

begs the people to move back, while a stran- 

ger, with well-meant brutality, deluges the 

sufferer with cold water. 



The faint is not very serious. It does not 

last long. After a few moments, moments of 

much distress and confusion they are, she is 

able, with the aid of a kind stranger who has 

bribed a hack- driver from, the door of the 

theatre near, to enter a carriage and start 

home. 



The mother follows, taking the eldest two 

of the daughters with her (the grandmother 

might be taken ill again, and she would need 

them), and hurriedly giving the driver her 

address and calling to Tante Angele to " bring 

the children home," she closes the carriage 

door, and they are gone. 



Poor old Tante Angele ! It seemed a sim- 

ple thing to " bring the children home," and 

yet, suddenly relieved of the terrible strain 

which no one had realized, she gazed about 

her as one dazed. 



The shawl about her old shoulders was 

wet and cold, and she shivered. Perceiving 







19 







it, little Marie took off her own wrap and 

would have placed it around the old woman, 

but it was quickly replaced and securely- 

pinned. But the incident seemed to revive 

her consciousness of the situation, for she 

exclaimed, in French : 



" Come, come! All of you ! .Come Louis, 

Marie, Arthe, Babette ! Where is Babette 

— ou est 'tite Babette?" 



The little one was, indeed, nowhere to be 

seen. It had all been so sudden — the rush, 

the grandmother's fall, the panic. 



" Tell me — dites moi ! — where is Babette? 

On ma bebtef she continued to cry again 

and again, staggering visibly as she peered in 

all directions for the missing child. 



No one remembered seeing her since she 

had been toddling at her grandmother's side. 



No matter what might happen afterwards, 

for the moment she was lost. For the length 

of a block or more in all directions the way 

was clear now. 



The old woman stood fixed a moment, 

then, crossing herself, while with moving lips 

she held her face heavenward, she threw up 

her arms and fell with a heavy thud upon the 

pavement. 







CHAPTER II 



WHEN presently Tante Angele groaned and 

tried to raise herself, her first words showed 

the grief that came with returning conscious- 

ness. 



"Ah, pove piti /" (poor little one), she 

moaned. " Et li si jolt! Ou li?" (And 

she so pretty ! Where is she ?) 



"Ah, mo lasse /" (I am tired), she added, 

wearily, as with a difficult effort she rose to 

her feet. 



One glance at theweeping children seemed 

to restore her to full strength, however, and, 

turning to the strangers who had gathered 

about her, she besought them to find her 



bMe. 



For a long time the little terror-stricken 

group lingered at the street-corner, hoping 

against hope that Babette would suddenly 

reappear quite near them, or that they would 

discern her little figure, lost only for the mo- 

ment, among straggling passers-by. 



Occasionally a policeman would stop only 







21 







to assure them " There was no occasion for 

alarm. It was foolish to cry and grieve; 

children were lost every day — and found. 

Much better for the old woman to take the 

others home than to stand in her wet clothes 

and take her death of cold." 



But to all such suggestions Tante Angele 

would turn a deaf ear. To go and leave her 

" cliere bebe'e — maybe in a gutter, or all mash 

under a cart-wheel" — that she would never 

do. 



It was nearing midnight now. The clocks 

had struck ten long before the accident, and 

more than an hour had passed since. 



Finally the old woman moved to go, and, 

followed by a crowd of sobbing children, she 

led the way, moaning softly as she went, a 

few steps beyond the next corner. 



Hesitating here a moment, as if she had 

not courage to go on, she threw herself down 

upon the front steps of old Christ Church, 

and wept unrestrained, swaying her body to 

and fro in her great sorrow. 



Here her wails attracted the passers on 

foot, who hesitated, asked a few questions, 

were " sorry," " hadn't seen anything of her," 

and passed on. 



Carriages rolled by, a brilliant line, bring- 







22 







ing their rustling- burdens — ladies in dia- 

monds, silks, and laces — to the grand Mystick 

Krewe ball in the old Varieties Theatre next 

door. 



Little Arthe had gone to sleep on Marie's 

lap. The others by turns wept and entreated 

the old woman to go home, but for once in 

her life she seemed oblivious to their present 

discomfort. 



The stone steps where they lay were wet 

and cold, and these tenderly-reared children 

unused to late hours and exposure. All 

thought of the present, however, was swal- 

lowed up in the sorrow that was wringing 

her faithful old heart. 



Presently little Arthe coughed in her sleep 

— a metallic, croupy sound. Rallying in- 

stantly, Tante Angele, hastily lifting the 

sleeping burden in her arms, and saying 

only " Allons !" (let us go), started towards 

the Rampart car. 



Her pld hands trembled so violently that 

it was with much difficulty that she finally 

secured the car-fare, closely tied in a corner 

of her kerchief. During the long ride home 

she sat silent — a pitiful wreck of the placid, 

trig, dignified figure who sat on the gallery 

only a few hours ago. Her tignon, saturated 







23 







with water, lay limp and flabby. The watch- 

dog's ears had fallen. 



When at last they left the car she stag- 

gered visibly, but waiting and carefully help- 

ing each one out and sending them ahead, 

she followed with her heavy burden. The 

front gate stood open, and the family were 

anxious and excited when the group entered. 

The father had come home some minutes 

before, and, not finding them, had hurried 

back to make inquiry. He had not yet re- 

turned. A shout of delight greeted the wan- 

derers as they entered the hall-door, Tante 

Angele still staggering pitifully behind. 



Laying the sleeping child down upon the 

hall lounge, she sank beside her upon the 

floor, while a chorus of children's voices made 

the tragic announcement : 



" Babette est perdu !" 



" Babette— perdu !" 



"Babette is lost!" 



" lost!" 



The mother, naturally turning to Angele 

for explanation, rushed forward with an ago- 

nized scream; but when she reached the 

lounge, she started stricken with a new terror. 



Reclining as she had fallen upon the floor, 

her arm still under the head of the sleeping 







24 







child, her own head fallen back until it rested 

on the same pillow, poor old Tante Angele 

was at rest. For the first time in her long 

service of half a century she had been told to 

" bring the children home," and she had not 

been able to obey. She was too old to rea- 

son about it — to hope with an almost certain- 

ty that the little one would be found — to re- 

alize that she was blameless. The mother, 

in an agony of fear, raised the dark arm, try- 

ing to rouse her, but there was something in 

the noble old face that said it was too late. 



Tante Angele could not look in her face 

and say, "Your child is lost." She was at 

rest, without sickness or pain or knowledge 

of parting — simply at rest. 



So, tenderly and painlessly, does the All- 

Father sometimes take old and tired people 

out of weariness and trouble when life be- 

comes too sad and hard to bear. 



And we say they are " dead." 



A faint gleam of day was shining across 

the river when Colonel Le Charmant drove, 

for the third time, to the door of the police- 

court opposite Jackson Square to inquire for 

tidings of his lost child. 



He had gone in haste to Canal Street, to 









?X 







25 







the corner where the accident occurred, where 

the carriage had left Tante Angele and the 

children, hoping for news of them ; but seeing 

no one, he was turning away when an apothe- 

cary who was answering his night-bell called 

out to him, asking if he had found his child. 

Surprised to learn that the father knew noth- 

ing of the affair, he handed him a written de- 

scription of the little girl, together with her 

name and residence. This he had gotten 

from the policeman. 



The Frenchman's hand trembled as he re- 

turned the paper, and, turning away, he has- 

tened to the various police-stations of the 

city, at several of which he found notices 

similar to that of the corner apothecary. To 

each he hastily added a promise of reward to 

her finder, and so the remainder of the night 

passed. 



When, for the third time, he stepped out of 

the court facing Jackson Square, his heart 

sank. It was the same story— no news. He 

felt that he must go home, and yet he dreaded 

to meet the family. There was a bare pos- 

sibility that the child might by this time be 

comfortably sleeping in her own bed, and 

yet, if her finder had cared to restore her, 

there had been plenty of time before his re- 







26 







turn from the ball. The apothecary had told 

him that the old nurse had gone home sor- 

rowing later than midnight. 



The world generally has a tender feeling 

for little children, and a lost child is almost 

sure to find protecting arms. Yet how tragic 

a terror seizes us as we think of the possibility 

of one of our own little ones — a brother or a 

sister — being lost in a great city at night. 

The very thought draws our hearts in sym- 

pathy to every member of the Le Charmant 

household to-night — not forgetting the little 

child herself, who at best must be bewildered 

by strange scenes and faces. 



It is not hard to understand her father's 

reluctance to going home without her, and 

with little hope of finding her there. As he 

stood, undecided what to do next, a police- 

man just released from his night work crossed 

at the corner. 



Calling him, and thrusting a coin into his 

hands, Colonel Le Charmant bade him go to 

the house and see if there were any news. 

"You will find me here when you come 

back," he added, pointing to the open square. 

The conversation was hurried, and in French. 



With hands crossed behind him and bowed 

head, he now entered the square and began 







27 







walking slowly up and down its winding 

paths. Every few moments he would stop, 

and absently kick a tiny white shell from 

the walk with the toe of his patent-leather 

pumps. He had left notices with all the pa- 

pers—notified the police. What else could 

he do? Where search next ? For the pres- 

ent there seemed nothing but to wait. 



He stopped and looked at his watch. The 

policeman could not return for more than a 

half hour. He would have time and to spare 

to step across into the French market and 

take a cup of early coffee. 



For many years, an hour later than this, 

Tante Angele had brought his morning coffee 

to his bedside. A soft tap at his door, a 

noiseless step on the carpet, a freshly-tur- 

baned head appearing under the mosquito- 

netting, and a low-voiced greeting : 



"B'jou Mich6" (Good-morning, sir), had 

been her daily salutation, never vaiying dur- 

ing all the years ; and while " Miche " supped 

his tiny cup of black Java coffee, she had 

waited, tray in hand, while in monosyllables 

she reported the state of the weather. 



" Fait chaud ce matin " (It is warm this 



morning) ; or " II fait mouiller " (It is damp). 



So the noiseless step and the silver tray 







28 







went from room to room until, her round 

complete, she would toast her old toes at the 

nursery-grate and peacefully sip her own cof- 

fee, poured from the same pot. 



Then, if the weather and her rheumatism 

agreed, she would steal off to mass in the 

little chapel near ; or, if the wind were 

from the east, she steadied her elbows on 

her knees, said her beads, and nodded until 

it was time to wake the children. 



The light of day was gleaming dimly 

through its broad aisles when Colonel Le 

Charmant stepped into the market, and as 

the tiny orange - colored gas-jets down the 

aisle went out, one by one, he started to re- 

alize that another day was really begun. 



Little Babette had been lost for an entire 

night. 



As, his coffee finished, he turned away, 

there were many in all directions who nudged 

one another, and, pointing to the man in ball- 

costume, whispered mysteriously. The news 

of a lost child travels fast. 



When he returned to the square he found 

the policeman waiting. A single glance at 

the man's face answered the question that 

arose to the father's lips. 



There was no news of the missing Babette. 







2 9 



The more alarming the real situation, the 

more need of courage, the greater his resolve 

to treat it lightly. He must go home and 

help his family to look at the matter " sensi- 

bly," while they waited for the good news 

the day must surely bring. 



The notices in all the papers would find 

their way into homes in even the most re- 

mote precincts. Surely a few hours more of 

anxiety at most would end the terrible strain, 

and then there would be a good laugh. If 

poor people brought her, they should be well 

rewarded ; if her rescuer were rich, he should 

be royally treated. No man who served a 

Le Charmant was ever forgotten. 



When he arrived at the house, it was crowd- 

ed with the extensive family connection. A 

servant had run with the news to one house 

the night before, and by morning a host of 

uncles, aunts, and cousins — cousins to the 

third and fourth degree — overflowed broad 

galleries and steps. 



The news of Tante Angele's tragic death 

had not reached the distressed man, and as, 

on entering, he caught sight, through the nurs- 

ery door ajar, of the familiar symbols of 

death — the lace-covered bier and burning can- 

dles — he rushed into the room, crying, " My 







30 



child is dead !" But when he saw the placid 

countenance of the faithful old nurse and 

learned the pathetic story, he turned away 

with bowed head — silent. 



This tragedy seemed to lend a horrible re- 

ality to the other sorrow, and he found it 

hard to speak the words of courage and 

cheer which he had intended to bring. 



The day passed — another and another — a 

week — a month — and still no news came. 

The rewards offered through the daily pa- 

pers grew with each insertion, until a fair 

fortune lay at the demand of him who should 

bring home the lost Babette. 



And yet there was no clew. Manifestly 

she had been stolen. Dreadful words ! and 

still what else could be the truth ? 



Once a tiny blue slipper was found on the 

wharf whence a French ship had just sailed. 

It corresponded nearly in description with 

those the lost child had worn. Who could 

say that it was not hers ? 



It was sent to the Le Charmant home, 

compared with all the little shoes the child 

had worn — shoes wet with loving tears, of 

which even the stray blue slipper had a gen- 

erous share — and put aside as being a doubt- 

ful and uncertain witness. 







31 







Still, cable despatches of inquiry greeted 

the vessel on landing on the other side, but 

without result. The grandmother grieved in 

silence, and never left her room. The moth- 

er walked her floor with sorrow and tears, 

and in the smiling faces of the children at 

home seemed to see only reminders of the 

lost. Sorrow now wrote, with indelible pen- 

cil, deep lines for all the years time had for- 

gotten to record. She grew restless and ner- 

vous. When it rained, she sat within her 

window and wept, fearing her cherie might 

be somewhere out in the wet. 



If the sun shone warm and bright, maybe 

the dear child was taking a fever. A sud- 

denly-slammed door made her start, and 

soon silver strands began to glisten among 

the dark, wavy locks upon her temples. 



A terrible dark cloud had settled over the 

Le Charmant home. Let us hope it had a 

silver lining, and that we may soon get a 

glimpse of its bright side. 







CHAPTER III 



A YEAR passed. And now, out of one dark 

cloud another began to emerge. 



The blooming, handsome mother of twelve 

months ago had grown pale-faced, sad, and 

silent. The doctor advised a change of scene. 



" Go across the lake for a while," he said ; 

" breathe the fresh salt-sea air, and get back 

the roses into your cheeks." 



But at the bare mention of the lake she 

shuddered. Everything there in her summer 

home would remind her of the lost child — 

every breeze from the sea awaken recollec- 

tions of the last season spent there with the 

delicate baby — the lost Babette. 



The old doctor, during all her life a per- 

sonal friend as well as family physician, took 

Colonel Le Charmant aside and advised him. 



" We have remedies for nearly all human 

ills," he said, sadly, "but your wife's com- 

plaint is not named in our books. She has 

a broken heart. If she remains at home, 

growing paler as the weeks go by, I cannot 







33 







answer for the result. Take her away. 

Cross the ocean. Don't say you can't go. 

She must go. She will not go without you. 

You must make a business trip. She will fol- 

low you. It is the business of your life — and 

mine— to get her well. I order you to go." 



And so — all in a three-minute talk, with- 

out previous thought or arrangement — it 

was decided that the Le Charmant family 

would go to France. The very thought of 

preparing for so great a change drew the sad 

woman somewhat out of her grief; and as she 

began to go about, arranging household mat- 

ters, deciding and directing all the detail of 

packing, the children were delighted and said, 

"Matnan is getting well." 



The handsome residence at Pass Christian 

was sold. The city home would be closed 

and left in care of a trusty negro servant. 



The kind-faced little French priest, old 

Father Philippe, came often in these troub- 

lous days, offering Christian consolation and 

advice, and promising to keep eyes and ears 

constantly and watchfully open for news. 



"The good God knows best," he would 

say. " Perhaps He is trying your faith, and 

when you can say, ' His will be done'— who 

knows?— you may have your little one again." 







34 



But the time had not yet come when the 

broken-hearted mother could bow in sub- 

mission to this great sorrow. After a month 

of preparation — a month into which so many 

things were crowded that it seemed scarcely 

a week — the day of sailing came. The chil- 

dren had all paid a last visit to Tante Angele's 

grave in the old St. Louis cemetery, leav- 

ing tributes of love in fresh flowers and a 

beaded wreath of elaborate design. "The 

flowers will soon fade," they said, " but the 

wreath will keep till we come back." 



They would remain abroad about a year, 

so the father said. But a year is long and 

brings many changes — and France is far 

away. It was in June, that heavenly month 

of perfect days, that they sailed. Even the 

sea seemed in sympathy with the gentle spirit 

of the low-lying peaceful shore on the fair 

day when they rode through the shallow 

mouth of the great river upon the bosom of 

the deep waters. 



As the mother sat, sad and silent, upon deck, 

gazing with tear-filled eyes at the receding 

shore until it seemed only a low cloud, then 

a line of gray mist, ere it melted quite away 

into blank space, her heart was filled with 

sad misgivings. Was she moving farther 







35 







from her lost child with each breath of the 

panting ship, or might she hope to meet her 

in the distant land to which she was going? 



While the vessel sails away under fair June 

skies, the mocking-bird, unconscious of the 

sorrow that has closed its doors, sings his 

merriest song in the orange-tree at the Le 

Charmant home, and bright butterflies flit 

over the flowers on Tante Angele's grave and 

light upon the beaded wreath that sways 

easily in the sunny breeze. 



But little Babette ! Where is she ? 



Did any one notice a tall dark figure, 

wrapped in a heavy gray shawl, following 

close behind the Le Charmants on Mardi- 

Gras night ? Surely not. Who in this merry 

festival would think of watching a quiet old 

woman in a gray shawl ? 



Over on the beach beyond Lake Borgne, 

hence " across the lake " from New Orleans, 

less than a hundred miles distant as the crow 

flies, on the north shore of Mississippi Sound, 

shown by tiny dots on the maps and some 

not represented at all, are the little summer 

towns that for many years have been the 

season's resorts for thousands of New Or- 

leans people. 







36 







But a few years ago the only approach to 

these sea-shore villages was by boat, going 

two or three times a week until the midsum- 

mer travel demanded a daily trip. Now a 

railroad, taking them all in on its way to Mo- 

bile and beyond, has lifted all these summer 

towns, as well as the dense woodlands be- 

tween them, from obscurity into the world. 



Conspicuous among the winter residents 

scattered along this coast are the Italian fish- 

ermen, who try to save enough money from 

their summer trade to support their families 

in poverty and idleness during the cold sea- 

son. The more enterprising enter the winter 

fish and oyster trade with New Orleans, but 

many prefer to lounge about their huts, draw- 

ing the seine often enough to keep the wolf 

from the door, and spending more of the sum- 

mer's earnings for tobacco or poor whiskey 

than for bread, and more for garlic and red- 

pepper than for butter. 



Hidden, whether by intention or accident, 

in one of the most wretched of these sea- 

shore dwellings, removed by a closely-wooded 

beach of several miles from any other human 

habitation, lived in squalid poverty the mis- 

erable family of the Italian, Nicholas Nicho- 

las. In a dense clump of oaks, somewhat 









DID ANY ONE NOTICE A TALL FIGURE WRAPPED IN A HEAVY 

GRAY SHAWL?" 







37 







back from the shore -line, his low- shedded 

shanty sat flat upon the ground like a sitting 

hen with extended wings. 



This miserable hovel, for his family's sake, 

we shall call a house. It would seem a dese- 

cration of that holier word to call it a home. 

And yet it was all of home that its occu- 

pants had known for years — all that the nu- 

merous brood of children who had first be- 

held the light of day through its two doors 

had ever known. 



Nick's wife had once asked to have a win- 

dow, so that when the weather was cold she 

could see to mend the fish-nets or to string 

pepper-pods; but Nick had only sworn and 

muttered something about " forgetting her 

raising," which cruel speech silenced her. 



The meaning of his unkind reply we shall 

soon see. The window was never made. 



But when our story takes us to this poor 

little dwelling, the question of doors and win- 

dows is a small matter; for in June who 

would stay within doors on the shore of a 

Southern sea ? 



The net stretched out to dry in front of 

the cabin shakes in the gentle breeze, and the 

green of the pines along the beach is fresh 

and tender. A black-eyed baby, crawling off 







33 







the heavy gray shawl spread for him upon 

the beach, rolls over and over in the warm 

sand, crowing with glee, while a group of 

older children raise their short skirts and 

wade knee-deep in the salt surf. 



Another child, similarly clad, brown and 

handsome like the others, and yet with a dif- 

ference — they are all beautiful — sits apart 

from the others, and gazes with thoughtful 

eyes out towards the sea. A bit of an old 

shingle lying at her side beside a deep hole 

in the sand shows that she has been playing 

in child-fashion, digging wells one minute to 

fill them the next. 



If the wind soughing in the pines sings a 

sad story to-day, and its plaint is all in a mi- 

nor strain, it has not found its key-note in 

earth or sea or sky, for it is one of June's 

matchless days. It is the day on which the 

Le Charmants are setting sail for Europe. 



We can almost fancy that the sea- wind 

gathers its notes from the heart of the sor- 

rowing mother who sits gazing wistfully over 

the vessels side, and wafts the sad chords 

into the forest; while the towering pines 

above her head catch and translate into 

sound the wistful look in the deep dark eyes 

of the beautiful child who sits apart from the 







39 



others silently watching the sea. This is but 

a fancy, and yet, following it, we may imag- 

ine that it is the meeting within the forest 

of these two answering strains that produces 

the sad but harmonious wail that charms the 

ear of the little child who only knows that 

she loves to sit and listen. 



Need we say that this little one is Babette ? 

If her people, straining their eyes from the 

departing vessel, could see her to-day, they 

would not know her. Dressed in a shrunken 

gown of checkered flannel, a red cotton ker- 

chief tied loosely about her neck, with her 

chubby feet brown and bare, she looks a veri- 

table little " dago," like the rest of the juve- 

nile members of the household of Nicholas 

Nicholas. 



The sea-wind has browned and summer's 

sun tanned her, and while brightening and 

deepening her color, they have brought her 

golden gifts. Vigorous health, such as the 

loving, watchful care of mother and home 

had not been able to bestow, has come to 

her in full measure — the threefold gift of the 

sun, the balmy air, and the salt sea-waters. 



Besides the family whom we have men- 

tioned — father, mother, and children — there 

were two other occupants of this cottage by 







40 







the sea. One we recognize at a glance as 

the old woman who followed the Le Char- 

mants on Mardi-Gras night sixteen months 

ago. The other was — shall we say an old 

or a young man ? It was hard to tell ; al- 

most as difficult as it was to say whether he 

was what is commonly called black or white. 

As a matter of color, though a pure Cau- 

casian, he was not white, nor was he black, 

or yet brown, but rather of a leathern hue, 

with dark blotches over neck, hands, and 

face. 



Two other facts regarding him are appar- 

ent, however. He is a mute; this he be- 

trays by mysterious motions of his hands as 

he ties the boat up to the wharf under Nick's 

direction. Another fact which we soon dis- 

cover is that he is mentally weak. " A fool- 

ish," Nicholas would say, indicating, by a tap 

upon his own forehead, the seat of Noute's 

trouble. 



Who this man was, how he had gotten 

there, what was his real name, and how he 

had acquired it, were questions that no one 

ever answered. If Noute himself knew, he 

could not tell. A few things he did know, 

and the thing he knew best was to obey. 



Excepting for an occasional obstinate fit, 







41 







which the sinister old grandmother said came 

upon him at the change of the moon, Noute 

was uniformly docile. And he was strong of 

arm, and could row or sail a boat, or draw a 

heavy seine. 



He did not mind being cursed or abused, 

for curses and blessings were all the same to 

his unconscious ears; and as for being kicked 

when Nick was out of temper — or out of 

whiskey, which amounted to the same thing 

— well, he was slowly learning to keep out 

of harm's way. Even if he did get an occa- 

sional blow from Nick's boot, what was the 

difference ? 



We all have our missions. Perhaps Noute, 

" the foolish," thought his mission in life was 

to be kicked. At any rate, he accepted his 

fate. It will readily be seen that Noute was 

a most useful member of the family of Nich- 

olas Nicholas. 



He could chop more wood within a given 

time than any other member of the house- 

hold, and he was a cheap boarder, taking his 

chances with the rest for daily bread, himself 

keeping up the supply of fish as well as fuel ; 

and, besides, he was safe — he could tell no se- 

crets! 



Noute's one extravagance was tobacco, for 







42 







which, if he were pressed, he would barter 

the clothes off his back. His appearance, 

however, was an obstacle to extensive trade, 

as nearly all the people along the beach were 

afraid of him. Added to the startling effect 

of his blotched visage, which was made more 

grotesque by a pair of large ears set high up 

on his head, there was about him that most 

painful of characteristics, an absence of in- 

tellect. 



His pale blue eyes, twinkling in a perpet- 

ual smile beneath a low- roofed forehead, 

were more apt to repel than to attract. 

Strange children, who looked at him shyly 

askance at first, would run screaming away 

when he began to gesticulate. The fisher- 

men's wives along-shore regarded him with a 

sort of superstitious horror, and would turn 

their faces away and cross themselves if he 

passed before them. 



Some said that he talked to the devil, and 

with the uncanny movements of his hands 

was working strange spells; while others, 

pointing to his spots, whispered of leprosy. 



Indeed, the report that poor simple Noute 

was a leper gained such currency that even 

those who doubted it feared that it might be 

true, and kept a safe distance; so that wej 







43 



may easily see that the family of Nicholas 

Nicholas was practically quarantined. 



It is hard to understand how little Babette 

Le Charmant, the petted child of refined and 

wealthy people, could have come into this 

miserable and most unfortunate family. 



The true story, which will explain how and 

why the poor old grandmother followed our 

Creole friends on that memorable Mardi-Gras 

night, and will relate all the incidents that 

led to the terrible deed that brought so much 

sorrow in its train, will have to form a chap- 

ter all to itself. 







CHAPTER IV 



The pedigree of Nick's family was some- 

what unusual. About twenty -five years be- 

fore this story begins a certain camp of wan- 

dering gypsies had spent a summer on this 

coast. 



Noted for her beauty then as for her ugli- 

ness now (for it is the present grandmother 

of the Nicholas household whom we are de- 

scribing) was a bonny gypsy maiden of this 

encampment, and many visitors came from 

Pass Christian, Bay St. Louis, Biloxi, Mis- 

sissippi City, and even from New Orleans, 

ostensibly to have their fortunes told, but 

really to see the beautiful gypsy girl. 



Of course she had many lovers among the 

humble shore- folk, and it was not strange 

that she should have chosen for her husband 

a handsome trifling son of a Sicilian fisher- 

man. 



The groom attached himself for a time to 

the wandering gypsies, but finally he and his 

Arabian wife drifted back to his father's roof, 







45 







bringing with them a little dark-eyed daugh- 

ter — the present Mrs. Nicholas. 



We now begin to see why the little wom- 

an was silenced by her husband's reference 

to her " raising," as a childhood spent in a 

gypsy camp supplied no memories of such 

luxuries as glass windows. 



She had risen in the social scale to the 

point of familiarity with hinged doors and 

plastered walls only through the light of 

" dago " civilization. 



To go back once more: The old gypsy's 

husband had died while his daughter was yet 

an infant ; and while his people wanted his 

child, they declared that her mother, a "gyp- 

sy tramp," was none of theirs. She must 

provide for herself. And so continuing, for 

her child's sake, to live with her husband's 

people, she contrived, by various little indus- 

tries, to contribute to the family support. 

Sometimes, in those old days, carrying a 

basket dago fashion, she had peddled fish 

or crabs, or such game as she could secure 

from the wood, going from house to house ; 

while at other times, after the manner of gyp- 

sies, she had turned an honest (?) penny at 

fortune-telling. Indeed, often the two indus- 

tries were combined. 







4 6 







So summers went by and winters passed 

until the gypsy -dago daughter was grown 

and married. 



The groom was as handsome as her own 

young husband had been, and of the same 

people ; and if the gypsy mother had her mis- 

givings about young Nicholas Nicholas as a 

suitable husband for her daughter, she was 

too discreet to express them. 



Her husband's family approved the match. 

Was he not a cousin's cousin from the same 

loved Palermo whence all their people had 

come? That settled the matter, and they 

were married. 



Nick may have been an attractive lover, 

but as a husband and father we have seen 

that he proved a failure. 



After a few years of poor effort he seemed 

to give up all ambition to care for his family, 

and at the end of ten years we find them 

hiding their misery from the world in the 

deserted remains of an old hunter's cabin, 

where we first saw them. 



But what has all this to do with our little 

Creole heroine, Babette? 



We shall soon see. 



When the trade of the summers began to 

slip away from Nick into the hands of soberer 







47 







competitors ; when the winters began to 

bring suffering in addition to the usual priva- 

tions — it became evident some one else must 

help to keep the family pot boiling — a literal 

necessity in this case. The mother, with al- 

ways a babe at her knee and another in her 

arms, could do nothing to add to the store- 

house ; and so the old grandmother must 

start out again as bread-winner. The old 

woman began to lay plans. 



It was too far to walk from their isolated 

hut to the towns along-shore carrying bas- 

kets after the old fashion. If she should take 

Noute with her, his presence would not in- 

vite trade. Besides, there was little chance 

to pick up an odd penny along-shore during 

the winter season, unless, indeed, she could 

visit several small winter hotels and boarding- 

houses of which she knew. If only she and 

Noute could patch up the old sail-boat — why 

not? — they could tie up at the pier -heads 

at Mississippi City or the Pass, and peddle 

fish and crabs. She might even try her hand 

again at her old craft of fortune-telling. 



It was done, and the basket that carried 

soft-crabs, a string of flounders or sheepshead, 

brought back corn-meal and coffee and flour. 



So passed a winter and a summer; but it 







4 s 







was slow living and hard work, and the re- 

turn of frost brought more pinching pov- 

erty. 



The old grandmother fell to pondering 

again. Something else must be done. Why 

could they not draw the seine on regular 

days, and try making weekly trips to the city 

— to New Orleans? It seemed a rash under- 

taking, and yet boats were going every day — 

and there was pressing need. 



While Noute was not party to the plan, he 

could obey the old woman's motions. They 

drew the seine the next day — and the next — 

and, on Friday following, the little craft made 

her first voyage to the great city. This was 

done by following in the wake of other boats 

at first; but Noute soon learned the way, and 

after two or three trips the little boat took 

an independent course, and the weekly sail 

was an established fact. 



Sometimes the little cargo — which the old 

woman peddled at the big houses in the 

French quarter, where she soon had her reg- 

ular Friday customers — would bring unusual 

profit, and besides the baskets of groceries 

would come warm stockings for the children 

or a new gown for the mother; even misera- 

ble, unworthy Nick was not forgotten. Noute 







49 







took his dividends in an extra share of to- 

bacco. 



All went well for a time, but troubles came 

again. There was jealousy among the regu- 

lar fishermen, and the old gypsy's ears caught 

whispers of " selling without a license," and 

even that startling word " arrest." She re- 

turned from this trip with a sad heart — al- 

most discouraged. She could not pay for 

the required license out of her meagre earn- 

ings. She feared to appear again in the 

streets of New Orleans without it. 



The next week the little boat made no 

voyage, but sat upon the water tied up 

against the wharf, her brave little sails folded, 

and her oars crossed like hands at rest in her 

lap, awaiting orders from the silent crew. 

But no word came this week or the next. 



During this time the old woman was pre- 

occupied and silent, while Noute kept his 

blinking eyes fixed anxiously upon her, hop- 

ing for instructions. 



Nick, the father, seldom interfered with 

any of the family plans now, not even swear- 

ing at Noute, so long as he could keep com- 

fortably drunk, which, somehow, he managed 

to do. He was a good sailor and knew the 

coast, and the fishermen along-shore some- 







5Q 



times took him cruising to Chandeleur Isl- 

ands, when, sobering him, they would make 

use of him, and, setting him on his feet at 

the end of his service, send him home with 

money enough to keep him in whiskey for a 

month or so. 



Of Nick's family they knew little beyond 

the fact that there were a flock of little ones 

to be cared for, and that they were miserably 

poor. Mrs. Nicholas never left her home, 

summer or winter. It was a charity to give 

Nick an occasional job, even if its proceeds 

went for drink. This was not so bad as 

trading away the family provisions, as he had 

been known to do. 



Now the last half of their last strip of ba- 

con hung on its smoky twine against the 

wall in Nick's shanty, and if he neither knew 

nor cared that the macaroni-box was empty 

and the flour getting low in the sack, the 

grandmother did know and must care ; and 

the plan for relief, which crept into her old 

head timorously at first — as a thing too 

shameful to be entertained even by this poor 

gypsy — gradually took root and strength- 

ened. 



Even in her early days, before the light of 

dago morals had illumined her poor life, the 







51 







worst she had done was to gather in dimes at 

front doors for telling to mistresses the family 

secrets she had gleaned in their kitchens. 



The plan which came to her now was so 

hideous that she started from her pallet in 

the lonely shed-room as it dared to come and 

tempt her. But when the morning brought 

new suffering, and the knife approached near- 

er the bacon's string, it came again. 



Among her richest customers of the French 

quarter she had recognized one of the wealthy 

summer families of Pass Christian. They 

were " such a so rich peoples I" So the ser- 

vants had said, rolling their eyes until the 

color was quite out of sight to express the 

limitless wealth which words could not con- 

vey. 



They so rich — and she so poor. If she could 

only — 



No wonder she shuddered at the terrible 

thought. If she could only steal one of the 

rich mails children ! He would pay a big 

reward for her restoration. Money would 

come in at the door and poverty fly out — up 

the chimney — in smoke. They would have 

warm clothing and flour — white, sweet wheat 

flour — and butter, such as she had tasted on 

scraps from the rich man's table. 







52 







Did she tell her plan? Not even to the 

moon that looked in upon her wrinkled face 

through the broken roof that had spoiled the 

gypsy's daughter, and made her " forget her 

raising." 



Noute danced with glee when the welcome 

motions told him to prepare for a trip to the 

city. He loved his sailor's life. It had brought 

him more wealth than he had ever known — 

more food, more tobacco. And as for clothes 

— he almost needed a trunk. 



Noute was not mercenary, but he was hu- 

man enough to feel the pleasure that comes 

to him who achieves any worthy success. 

Besides, his new life had added to his per- 

sonal dignity, making of him several things 

which he had not been before ; for was he 

not captain and all the crew combined of an 

independent tramp sailing-vessel? Was he 

not a well-fed and well-dressed gentleman ? 



If he was not, he thought he was, and com- 

paring his old self, who had caught cold 

through the rents in Nick's cast-off trousers, 

with the new dignitary who rode the sea like 

a " captain of the line," he was indeed a 

man of consequence. 



If the solitary passenger was nervous and 

depressed, the captain was jubilant enough 







53 







when, hoisting sail, they set out on their mo- 

mentous voyage, 



As the little boat tripped gleefully over 

the water, and Noute sat grinning proudly 

in happy possession of honors restored, the 

wrinkled old woman, turning her back to 

him, covertly unfolded a little bundle which 

she carried wrapped in a gray shawl, and, 

running her eye hastily over its contents, 

quickly rewrapped it, only to repeat the same 

mysterious proceeding again and again dur- 

ing the day, as if making quite sure that 

everything was there as it should be. 



The bundle contained a pair of long wool- 

len stockings, small and old, a shrunken flan- 

nel cloak, and faded hood — all half- worn 

little garments of Nick's children. 



The trip was a quick one, and the tiny 

craft sailed through the mouth of Bayou 

Saint -John, and up within its banks to a 

point within easy walking distance of Canal 

Street, in the early evening of the day they 

sailed. 



Before dawn next morning the old woman 

set out directly to the Le Charmants' back 

gate, having first bidden the mute, by a se- 

ries of gestures, to await her return in the 

boat. Selling the contents of her heavy bas- 







54 







ket was the pretended object of her visit, and 

the jingle of the coins they brought her de- 

lighted her old heart indeed; but this hour 

in the Le Charmant kitchen must be made 

to tell. There were some things which she 

must know, and they were things she could 

not ask. 



The lighter palms of a half-dozen variously 

colored hands were soon presented for her to 

read. There was not one of the lot who did 

not count the old woman a famous fortune- 

teller. 



Listen to the delighted exclamation of 

one of their number at the gypsy's wonder- 

ful revelations. 



"Mais, I am sho' — s7io'sh.Q is one witch, yas! 

How she can know all our w'ite people goin* 

ride in somet'ing wid wheel to-night — to go 

at dat Mardi-Gras procession ? Of co'se doze 

Dauphine car is got wheel, yas ! Et dcoutez, 

Celeste! She say dey goin'on one high place. 

Don't you find Griswold's galerie, close by 

Henry Clay, is one high place? Mon Dieu ! 

she make me all scare !" 



So the cunning gypsy led them on until 

they had told all she wished to know ; after 

which she indulgently wove wonderful fort- 

unes for all — fortunes so full of event and 







3 c 



O H 









55 







excitement, so colored with sentiment, that 

everything else became of no importance and 

was quickly forgotten. 



One would grow rich, one travel, one draw 

a lottery prize ; but all would marry, some 

once, some twice — all happily. What a fort- 

une-teller she was ! And how these poor, 

foolish, ignorant people piled her big basket 

with good things from the family larder ! 



Whether the panic at the corner of Canal 

and Dauphine streets was of the gypsy's 

planning, or only fhe accident that helped 

her terrible crime, is hard to say. 



When Babette's little hand felt the grand- 

mother's relax, another closed over it so quick- 

ly that she did not notice the change. 



Pushing the child gently yet firmly before 

her, keeping silent, the gypsy hurried as fast 

as she dared down Dauphine Street. 



In the excitement of the hour would any 

one notice that while an old woman led a 

handsomely dressed child into the shadow of 

a dark block, this same woman carried out 

into the light at the next corner a fretting 

baby wrapped in a dark, faded flannel cloak? 



Had one been curious, he could have sat- 

isfied himself, by a glance at the shabbily- 







56 







stockinged feet and faded hood, that it was 

only a tired mother or grandmother carrying 

her sleepy child home. 



While poor Tante Angele, two hours later, 

wept and wailed on the front steps of Christ 

Church, and the lemon saluted the canta- 

loupe in the old Varieties Theatre next door, 

Noute the foolish, steering the little boat out 

Bayou Saint-John, peered and blinked curi- 

ously in the darkness at the sleeping bundle 

in the old woman's arms. 



The theft had been a success. 







CHAPTER V 



If the sleepy fishermen along-shore had 

noticed, as the little boat came into sight in 

the early daylight next morning, that there 

was a child aboard, they would have taken 

for granted that it was one of Nick's chil- 

dren. Even had they suspected that a stolen 

child was hidden somewhere on the coast, 

they would have guessed that Nick, last of 

all, with already too many mouths to feed, 

had taken another. 



But though excitement ran high over the 

sad affair in the outer world, it caused not 

a ripple upon the even surface of the lives 

of these foreigners of the beach. 



But the gypsy kept herself fully informed. 

She knew just what rewards were offered, 

and, unfortunately for her plan, she knew the 

intensity of public feeling in the matter. 



Besides the universal sympathy and in- 

terest shown throughout the city, the Creole 

population was especially and justly aroused. 

There were mass -meetings: speeches were 







5S 







made, resolutions passed. The affliction 

which had covered one home with gloom 

became their common sorrow. 



"Our children are not safe at our own 

doors," they said. "We will resolve our- 

selves into independent police corporations ; 

let every man count himself a detective, and 

let no one sleep until his neighbor's child is 

found." 



Thus they continued to meet and to make 

speeches, consistently following them up with 

earnest, honest endeavor ; but no matter how 

willing, even eager, their hearts, human flesh 

is weak and grows weary. They slept — and 

their neighbor's child was not found. 



But the thief was frightened. She had 

formed several plans for returning the child 

and securing the coveted reward, which had 

grown dazzlingly tempting, and they all 

seemed feasible enough until the time came 

to execute them, when each seemed to leave 

a dangerous loop-hole by which she might 

be detected. It is true, a clause in the ad- 

vertised rewards promised " No questions 

asked;" still, she feared for her life if she 

should be discovered. 



She still made occasional trips to the city, 

clandestinely peddling her fish, and from the 







59 







gossip of the Le Charmant kitchen, to which 

she always went for a half-hour's gossip,which 

was more important now than even the coins 

she gathered there, she got a fair report of 

the sentiments of the family connection in 

the matter. 



" M'sieu Alphonse say he want to see 

somebody claim that reward." 



" M'sieu Jean, he say his word is passed. 

Wen dey give him back once more his bebe'e, 

he is willing to pay. He is pledge." 



"Mais" insists the first speaker, " M'sieu 

Louis an' M'sieu Felix an' M'sieu Aristide 

jump up quick an' say we are not pledge ! 

Your reward is money. Ours is so /" and she 

clasped her own neck with both hands. The 

motion meant that the culprit should hang 

by the neck. 



The wretched old woman did not gain 

courage by her visits to the Le Charmant 

kitchen. Many nights she resolved to return 

the child on the morrow ; but the new day 

always brought new fears, and found her 

nervous and afraid. 



In all her schemes Noute was the direct 

instrument with which she planned to work. 

He would be safe. He could tell nothing. 

He would bring the money. 







6o 







But supposing he should be killed! He 

could be easily identified. He would never 

come back to the boat. She could not go 

home without him. They would all be 

ruined. Even if Noute should escape un- 

hurt — if he should bring her the money — his 

extraordinary appearance would be a clue 

which would surely lead to her discovery. 



A year passed this way and another was 

begun. 



We have seen the changes in the Le Char- 

mant home, and their departure for Europe. 



The old woman had never been able to 

nerve herself to the act that involved so 

much risk to herself and family, and so the 

only result of her crime thus far was an add- 

ed care — another mouth to feed, one more 

child to clothe — and the loss of her best cus- 

tomers. 



Summer and winter passed, and came and 

went again — seasons of increasing trial and 

privation for the wretched family of the 

beach. 



Happily, little children often seem to thrive, 

like wild- flowers, upon those things which 

come by gift of Heaven — the life-giving, pine- 

laden air, the blood-warming sun, waters full 

of healing, and Mother Earth with only good 







6 1 







gifts to such as will inhale her breath, lying 

prone upon her motherly lap ; upon these, 

with but a few of the meagrest simples in 

the way of daily bread, this healthy brood of 

children grew, as the wild-flowers by the way- 

side, in richness of tint, strength, and riotous 

beauty. 



If the little aristocrat, Babette, was fairer 

to look upon than the others, it was because 

of a certain softness of line and tints, a mild- 

er coloring. There was a glint of brown in 

the deep masses of her flowing hair, whose 

waving ends the sun had burnished in shim- 

mering rings of bronze. Her eyes were of 

changing hues, like a midnight sky — not al- 

ways of one mood. 



Her little companions, whose pedigree of 

beauty was as long as her own, with their 

sharply-cut cameo faces of clear lines and pos- 

itive blacks and browns, their straight ebony 

hair, and lips of coral — ah, they -were pretty, 

too ; pretty, pretty 1 



And yet in looking at the group, one would, 

perhaps, accepting each little Italian as a per- 

fect type, pass satisfied to the next. But 

having seen the radiant Babette, he would 

look again and again, only to wonder what 

might be the hidden meanings of so much 







62 







depth and suggestiveness — what would be 

the effect of the next turn of her pretty head. 

Did those marvellous brown lashes curve or 

droop ? Was she a real human child, or only 

a sprite ? Could one ever get quite near her 

and touch her cheek, her hair? 



To those who may say this is overdrawn, 

we would ask, " But have you ever seen Ba- 

bette ? No ? Ah, well, of course, to you it 

is exaggerated." " But," says another, " I 

have seen her, and — " 



" What, you have seen her ? It is ' not 

half told,' you say ?" But one has only 

words. What are they to describe a beau- 

tiful Creole maid of any age from six to 

twenty ? And, then, English words, too — 

clumsy ponderous English ! If one might 

only do it in French ! 



Babette had spent nearly three years in 

this sea-side home — half her young life — and 

who shall say they were unhappy years ? 



Could any group of healthy children be 

unhappy under conditions so rich in oppor- 

tunity ? 



No matter how slender the family purse, 

they were never actually cold or never hun- 

gry more than once or twice, for just a little 

while — such a time as sometimes various 







63 







well-to-do small people we know are deprived 

of the thing they wish, for sake of discipline. 



The child who goes supperless to bed one 

night because the flour is out is no more 

unhappy than he who is sent to sleep hungry 

for having slapped his little brother, or rolled 

on the floor in a temper. Indeed, his unhap- 

piness is less, because his hunger is unsea- 

soned with remorse. 



It would be hard to actually starve on this 

Southern sea-coast. One would, perhaps, not 

prefer to eat fish at every meal — as some- 

times it was necessary to do — or to season it 

with macaroni in lieu of bread, or even, as 

was more than once the case, with persim- 

mons in place of either. 



The fastidious ones had the privilege of 

taking the fish first in due form, and, omit- 

ting the other courses, of finishing the meal, 

in regular approved style, with fruits. And 

there were nuts in season — pecans, walnuts, 

hickory- nuts, chinquepins — and grapes, if 

you please, not only the wild muscadine, but 

a dense half-fallen arbor laden with scupper- 

nongs, rusty and brown and juicy and sweet. 

Somebody, in the old days when the cabin 

was young — not so very, very many years 

before — had planted these vines, and made 







6 4 







a rude support of pine saplings for them 

within a stone's-throw of the hut. 



And so there were seasons when this little 

flock of foragers disdained more than half 

the meals offered them, even when there 

was macaroni in plenty — rich, savory, tomato- 

flavored steaming macaroni — growing fat, 

like the squirrels and partridges, on the lit- 

eral " fat of the land." A very different 

fare this from the feasting so figuratively 

called. 



And let no one suppose these deprived 

children were without amusements and toys. 

"Toys?" says some one — "toys? and some- 

times not enough to eat !" 



Certainly, toys. What have toys to do with 

eating? 



" But where did the money come from to 

buy them? Were they second-hand toys?" 

inquires another. 



Ah, now we understand. Bought toys are 

made especially for the unfortunate city chil- 

dren who have not the real things. 



Who would have a shop-made spring-board, 

for instance, when he could bend down the 

pliant, perfumed head of a young pine sap- 

ling, sit astride a crotch in its shoulders, and 

spring ten times as high as on any poor man- 







65 







ufactured affair— and swing in various direc- 

tions, too ? 



What family of children would have one 

or two spring-boards for an entire family 

when they could take possession of a tree 

apiece, and, if such was their pleasure, send 

them all towards a common centre, so that 

the riders might greet one another and run 

races in springing? 



What regularly balanced seesaw is half so 

good as a rough, irregular beam or plank laid 

across a fallen tree-trunk ?— a nice slippery 

trunk, with all the bark peeled off, that the 

seesaw shall not be too evenly poised. And 

there may be accidents — real delightful old- 

fashioned head-over-heels accidents. Every- 

body who has ever made the real sort — and 

unmade them because they were too much 

given to accidents, or too pokey and safe — 

will understand where the fun comes in. 



And as to swings ? Does anybody suppose 

our little sea -side children had no swings, 

because, forsooth, they had not ropes or 

staples or scaffoldings? Better than rope, 

or chain, or hammock of twine were their 

long grape-vine swings, hung in the very 

best places on the strong arms of the forest 

trees — some broad enough for two, and oth- 



5 







66 







ers just right for one to stand in and sway 

and sing and keep rising higher and higher, 

until she could thrust a foot mischievously 

into the great wheels of cobwebs glistening 

in the sun, and watch the bright red and 

green weavers run with all their long legs 

for their lives, or let themselves down to 

the ground with ropes safer than any patent 

fire-escape, spun as they were needed. 



And dolls? Of course, dolls. Why not? 

A store doll with a limited set of machine- 

acting accomplishments is not to be men- 

tioned in the same day with a pine baby. 

There is one to be found at the bright green 

summit of every tiny pine-tree, or at the end 

of every limb of one not too old and woody. 

She must be carefully cut just the right 

length, or height, and the needles plucked 

from face and shoulders. Then she will stand 

alone on her fresh skirt of green, while you 

find some sisters or brothers for her in the 

same tree, or some cousins from the tree 

across the footpath. They are just as amus- 

ing as corn dolls, and only a little older and 

more independent in their behavior. 



Of course, every countiy child has played 

with corn dolls, and knows just when to 

gather the baby ear from the corn-stalk — 







67 







how to take off its cloak of shucks without 

tumbling or tearing its long robes of shining 

silk. The corn dolls are very young and 

helpless, and have to be named and christ- 

ened, and to be jolted on their mamaris knees 

for colic. They very rarely have trouble cut- 

ting teeth, or tumble over in learning to walk 

as the pine babies do. 



These are only a very few of the toys 

with which our little beach children amused 

themselves. There were numbers of others. 



And then there was always the beach — 

the beach with its delightful warm sand, full 

of pretty pebbles and shells, its funny creep- 

ing things — conchs, snails, and fiddler-crabs 

— its coming and going tides. What better 

fun than gathering a lot of conchs, building 

a high wall of sticks around them, and then 

watching them walk about in all directions 

trying to get out, while the little crabs fiddle 

away, as if keeping time to their steps ? One 

can always catch any number of fiddlers and 

conchs on this sea-shore ; and the game need 

not be cruel. 



Perhaps the best fun is when a few pickets 

are drawn from the fence, and the conchs, 

blundering about with their houses on their 

backs, do not find their way out for a long 







68 







time. This is apt to be the case if the open- 

ing is made on the shore side of the enclos- 

ure. They seem naturally to run towards the 

water. 



A year before the time to which we have 

come, that is, when Babette was about five 

years old, something happened which made 

for her a friend and an enemy. The friend 

was the humblest member of the household, 

and the enemy the master of the house ; but 

we shall see which was the stronger. It had 

been a long time since Nick had given Noute 

a beating. There had been nothing to pro- 

voke it. Nick's one want was supplied in 

the way we have seen, and the duty of pro- 

viding for his family had been virtually as- 

sumed by the " foolish." 



This had been a season of development for 

even the weak-minded man, and he had dared 

to bring back empty the demijohn Nick had 

placed in the boat to be filled, whereupon 

milord began to use his boot as he had done 

in the old days. Noute, however, held him 

strongly at arm's-length, and would have 

thrown him from him, when — what was this ? 



The little child Babette, usually so gentle 

and mild, had rushed in between them, and 

with a stick was beating Nick over the head 







6 9 







and in the face; and when Nick seized the 

stick and broke it in her presence, she stood 

unabashed and defiant, and, cheeks aflame, 

commanded him to stop. Seeing her stand 

thus with head erect and unabashed, the 

miserable drunkard doggedly dropped the 

rod and sullenly slunk away. 



But what had come over Noute, " the fool- 

ish " ? Great tears were trickling down his 

scarred cheeks, and, throwing himself down 

at her feet, he took them in his hands and 

kissed them, laughing and weeping all the 

while like a foolish child. 



If Noute was a " low-down dog " — Nick's 

favorite name for him — he had a best dog's 

best trait — faithfulness; and no dog ever 

loved a master as this poor friendless creat- 

ure henceforth loved the little child, who 

had forgotten even her fear of the drunkard 

in resentment of his wrongs. 



Noute scarcely left the house after this 

without bringing something to his little 

queen. The prettiest of his flowered cotton 

kerchiefs he brought and tied about her 

neck. Down upon his knees in the sand he 

fell as he placed it there. Pretty shells from 

the islands and water-lilies from the bayous 

he would gather for her, always presenting 







7Q 



them — a queer notion it was of the poor 

" foolish " — on his knees. 



One day, in the summer-time it was, he 

brought her, in great glee, a mocking-bird 

in a little wooden cage he had made himself. 

He took particular delight in this gift, and 

after formally presenting it, he sat flat upon 

the ground, blinking faster than ever, to see 

what she would do. 



For a few moments she seemed as delight- 

ed as Noute could have wished ; but pres- 

ently her little face grew serious and trou- 

bled. The pretty bird, unaccustomed to the 

confinement of a cage, was beating its head 

against the bars, panting and panic-stricken. 



Babette, looking sadly at Noute, shook her 

little head and pointed to the trees. Then 

she opened the door of the little cage ; and 

when the bird flew away to the top of the 

highest branch she laughed and clapped her 

little hands. 



If Noute's first sensation was disappoint- 

ment, he was deeply impressed with the act. 

It seemed a sacred thing. The child who had 

fought for him would not imprison a bird. 

He sat very still upon the ground for a mo- 

ment, blinking slowly, as if trying to seize 

a difficult thought ; then taking between his 







7i 







hands the cage that had cost him so much 

labor, he crushed it to pieces and threw it 

far out into the water. 



Babette had given him his first idea of 

freedom, and with it he became her devoted 

slave for life. 







CHAPTER VI 



INSTEAD of being discouraged at the loss 

of his first bit of handiwork, Noute seemed 

quite anxious to use his new-found skill in 

the making of something that should meet 

with greater favor in Babette's eyes. His 

only tools were his penknife, a saw, and the 

hatchet used for splitting the family kind- 

ling-wood or chopping into short bits the 

fat knots of resinous pine. 



The planning of this bird-cage had been 

the supreme mental effort of Noute's life, 

its execution the master achievement of his 

hands. So much concerted action seemed 

a promise of better things. The cage had 

been a rough little structure, with its irregu- 

lar slats of split cane set at faulty angles; 

but it had served its purpose. It had held 

the bird securely, afforded air and a perch. 

How much more does the finest gilded bird- 

prison? To his inexperienced eyes it had 

been a work of art. He was eager to try 







73 







his prentice hand at something else. What 

would her little ladyship like ? 



Noute did a good deal of sea-gazing and 

blinking, and wasted considerable energy in 

idle whittling before his mind had been able 

to master a new plan, to think it out clearly, 

and to go to work with a degree of method ; 

but soon — much sooner than one would 

think possible, looking at the mechanic, his 

tools, and materials — there stood at Ba- 

bette's place at the table such a high-chair 

as would delight the heart of any little girl 

or boy in Christendom. Its slender rustic 

legs and arms were of pine saplings, and 

across the back was braided, with poor at- 

tempt at design, but an evident eye to com- 

fort, a close net -work of willow switches. 

Not content with leaving as many of the 

green leaves as possible upon the willows, 

Noute had stuck its high back full of fresh 

wild-flowers when he brought it in to pre- 

sent it. Falling on his knees as usual, he 

placed the chair before him, and, lifting Ba- 

bette, seated her within it, made a comical 

blinking bow, and rolled over backward on 

the ground, laughing with all his might. 



If Babette let the other little children sit 

in the pretty chair, turn about, when Noute 







74 



was away, he was none the wiser ; but the 

usurper who was reckless enough to be caught 

in it in his presence was always instantly de- 

throned. 



Strangely enough, the old gypsy never in- 

terfered in any of Noute's exhibitions of par- 

tiality to the strange child under her roof. 

Perhaps it was a faint relief to her guilty 

conscience to have the wronged little one fa- 

vored, even in so slight a way as was within 

poor Noute's power. And so the chair of 

honor was always accorded to its rightful 

owner at his demand. And later, when her 

small pallet in the shed-room was found one 

day lifted upon a brand-new pine bedstead, 

the little miss was granted undisputed pos- 

session of the imposing bit of furniture. 



Noute at some time in his life must have 

seen better furnishings than the Nicholas 

home afforded, for the bed he had evolved 

from such rude materials as he found at hand 

was of a pretentious pattern, with a crooked 

little twisted canopy at the head from which 

to hang a mosquito-net. There was nothing 

like it in Nick's house—nothing quite like 

it on the face of the earth, perhaps ; but it 

hinted of a memory of better days— a mem- 

ory as unsteady and imperfect as the bed, 







75 







maybe, but as surely formed after a remote 

design. 



One day in the spring of 1872, while the 

winds were yet chill and the sunlight faint 

and weak, Babette came into the cabin at 

nightfall with bright red spots on her cheeks 

and an unnatural brilliancy in her eyes. The 

gypsy was alarmed. She had heard of scarlet- 

fever and diphtheria in the city. There had, 

indeed, been a case of the former in the 

house of one of her customers, where she had 

spent an unwilling half-hour waiting to make 

change in payment for her fish. How dread- 

ful if she had brought the dire disease home 

in her clothing, and this should be but the 

beginning of new sorrows ! Besides, she had 

always felt a terror lest any harm should 

come to the strange child under her roof. 

She was not at heart the criminal she had 

become through the inevitable consequences 

of one deliberate act of wrong ; and there were 

many nights when the cares and trials of her 

old life were rendered tenfold harder to bear 

through the horrors of a guilty conscience. 



The way of the transgressor is hard, in- 

deed. As she sat beside the feverish child 

lying upon the rustic bed-that night, only a 

hard pale face betrayed the deep anxiety of 







76 







her heart. But she said nothing, and on the 

morrow, having given the little patient a 

cup of herb-tea and such other treatment as 

she administered to her own brood on occa- 

sion, she stoically started out with Noute to 

draw the seine, for on the next day they 

must go to town. 



When they returned in the evening Noute 

missed Babette from the group on the beach, 

and creeping stealthily into the shed-room he 

found her sleeping restlessly. When he laid 

his rough hand upon her forehead, it burned 

him. All night long he sat beside the sick 

child, and when morning came, and the old 

woman, summoning him, pointed to the boat, 

he sullenly shook his head. He would not 

leave Babette. 



The old gypsy was sadly perplexed. What 

should she do ? The fish and crab baskets 

were packed, and everything in readiness to 

start, but the sailor refused to move, and 

she could not go without him. Finally he 

rose, pointed to the bed, and then to the 

boat. He would go if she would take Ba- 

bette, too. There was no time to be lost 

in indecision. Heedless of consequences, 

she hastily wrapped the little burning form 

in her shawl and laid her in the boat. 







77 







During the long hours upon the water 

Babette coughed loud and often, and when, 

after nightfall, they landed upon the bank of 

the bayou, she was evidently so ill that the 

old woman, fearing that she would die unless 

something should be done, gathered her into 

her arms and, bidding Noute stay in the boat 

until she should return, hurried into the city. 



Noute followed stealthily behind. He had 

no idea of losing sight of Babette. 



It was a stormy night, and she had not 

proceeded far when the rain fell in torrents. 

For a second time the old woman hurried 

through the streets of New Orleans with the 

stolen child. If fear of detection hurried her 

steps the first time, terror, lest she should die 

in her arms, hurried her now. 



She knew where an old Indian doctress 

lived, far down in the quadroon faubourg, 

but it was dark, and she could not find her 

way in the blinding rain; still, she could think 

of nowhere else where she would dare go, 

and so she blundered on, hoping soon to 

reach a familiar locality and find her way. 

Such was not to be, however. The All-Fa- 

ther, who had raised up a friend for her in 

the poor idiot, could make the very storm 

which threatened her life an instrument in 







7S 







his devoted hands to save it. The storm 

grew every moment in fury, and yet she 

trudged on. Suddenly a loud clap of thun- 

der seemed to shake the earth, and the gut- 

ters were beginning to overflow. She stag- 

gered now as she picked her difficult way 

along the slippery banquette. 



Close behind, his soft hat pulled down so 

as to protect his eyes, walked the poor mute, 

anxiously watching to see what should be- 

come of her little burden — the one thing in 

the world that he loved. 



As the dog forbidden follows his loved 

master, dodging the expected clod at first, 

and growing bolder as it does not come, so 

Noute, fearing detection, kept far behind un- 

til, his anxiety growing with the storm, he 

was soon but a few steps behind. 



The gypsy had just waded across an over- 

flowed corner, and was blindly pressing for- 

ward, when an old gentleman in gossamer and 

umbrella rushed past her, and, pushing open 

a heavy iron gate, hastily entered. Here was 

Noute's opportunity — an open door, warmth, 

shelter for the sick child. Quick as a flash he 

sprang forward, and, grasping her from behind 

with all his strength, pushed the gypsy into the 

open gate. 







79 



While the poor fellow had not speech and 

but feeble reason, he had strength of arm 

and devotion, and the open gate with its in- 

vitation to shelter nerved him to the act. 



Through the gate the old woman sped so 

suddenly and violently that when she reeled 

against the old gentleman it would have been 

hard to say which of the two was the more 

startled ; but before there was time to ques- 

tion there came from the wet burden in the 

old woman's arms a loud croupy cough. Its 

metallic ring was an open sesame to the good 

man's door. 



Noute, standing without, trembled with 

excitement as he peered through the iron 

gate ; and when he saw the old gentleman 

turn, hold his umbrella carefully over the old 

gypsy, and carefully help her up the broad 

granite steps, through the arched hall door, 

into the glowing light ',he danced and laughed 

and wept, all by himself, in the darkness and 

the rain. Then he ran up and down the 

square for a moment, as if studying the sit- 

uation, and, forgetful of wind or rain, hur- 

ried away. 



It was too late to try to get back to the 

boat to-night — and too far — so he soon found 

a snug corner behind an end of an old dis- 







8o 







carded show-case under a shed, the ram- 

shackle remains of a dilapidated building. 

Here, in dreams that took their gilding from 

the glimpse he had gotten into the rich 

man's door, he spent the night. He had 

slept too many nights in the old boat at 

Nick's wharf to care for a little wetting now. 



Leaving him to sleep and to dream, let us 

go back to Babette and the gypsy. The old 

gentleman who had taken them in was Dr. 



; let us call it Bondurante. This, at 



least, was one of his names. 



Before the old woman had time to collect 

her scattered senses, she found herself in the 

doctor's comfortable office, and he lost no 

time in ministering to the sick child. Her 

cold, damp dress was replaced by dry cloth- 

ing, and the shivering feet were soon wrapped 

in warm flannels. 



A gentle-faced old lady prepared and gave 

the medicine, while, in the soft motherly arms 

of an old colored woman, the little body was 

slowly warmed back to life. Had she been 

conscious, and memory faithful, she might 

almost have fancied herself back in her old 

home and in the loving care of her grand- 

mother and Tante Angele. 



If, however, she retained any faint impres- 







Si 







sions of the tender and refined associations 

of the first three years of her young life, they 

were for the present overlaid by fresher mem- 

ories of a very different kind. 



Through all that night, as she tossed in 

her sleep, the names she muttered were those 

of the beach. 



During the first moments after their en- 

trance every one had been so much engaged 

with the little sufferer that the old woman, 

sitting bolt-upright in their midst in her wet 

rags, was for the time overlooked. But now 

that everything had been done for Babette, 

they turned, naturally, to the gypsy, and be- 

gan to question her. But she only shook her 

head, feigning not to understand. The doctor 

tried English, French, Spanish, Italian with 

the same result. She zuotild not understand. 



And so they discussed freely in French, 

their own tongue, the condition of the little 

patient, and the probable occasion of the un- 

timely visit. 



" I wish I could make her comprehend 

how very ill her child is," the doctor said; 

" she may not live through the night." 



The old woman had understood well 

enough all the way through, and now she 

was filled with a new panic. 







S2 







The storm still raged without. One could 

not send a dog out in such a night as this. 



Taking the child from the servant, Ma- 

dame Bondurante bade the negress, Clarisse, 

provide some dry clothing for the old wom- 

an, and to offer her a bed for the night. 

The doctor would take personal charge of 

the sick child. 



Obeying her movements, the gypsy fol- 

lowed Clarisse into the hall ; then, hesitat- 

ing a moment, and pointing to the floor, wet 

from her dripping garments, she indicated, 

by a twisting movement of her hands, that 

she wished to wring her skirts, and stepped 

out upon the porch. When she had gotten 

safely outside the hall door, did she stop to 

wring her clothing ? Not she. Darting noise- 

lessly down the steps — out the iron gate — 

into the street — she ran! Ran as she had 

not run for years — as she would never run 

again ! 







CHAPTER VII 



After running three or four squares, the 

old woman slipped and fell. For a few mo- 

ments, as she lay in the wet and darkness, 

her old head seemed to swim round and 

round, and she lost all consciousness ; but 

presently, perhaps, the pattering rain in her 

face restored her senses, for she raised her- 

self and looked around — as one waking from 

sleep — still half dazed. There was not a fa- 

miliar object in sight. She was lost. She 

thought of the Indian doctress as still a pos- 

sible refuge for herself ; but in which direc- 

tion to turn to find her now she could not 

tell. Shivering, she finally staggered to her 

feet, only to fall again ; and as she tried, 

leaning forward on her hands, to steady her- 

self for another effort, the banquette around 

her seemed to rise and fall, like a ship at 

sea. For some moments she lay still, sick at 

heart and terror-stricken. 



It was still raining, though not so heavily, 

and through the misty darkness she fancied 







84 







that she could descry a dark object ahead. 

It might mean shelter. While she peered 

eagerly forward, trying to see more clearly, 

the clank of a policeman's club sounded, ev- 

idently near at hand. Pulling herself to- 

gether now by a great effort, she crept for- 

ward on all- fours, and soon found herself 

safely under shelter. What it was she could 

not tell — did not care. And here she slept. 

Or did she sleep ? Her poor old brain was 

in a whirl — her body tired, tired. 



The events of the day were enough to 

exhaust her ; those of the past hour nearly 

drove her frantic. How had she gotten into 

the doctor's gate ? If she had been forced to 

say, she would probably have declared that 

she had been thundered into it. She had 

no impression of hands having touched her. 

The result of it all, however, was, in many 

ways, a relief. If only the people had not 

seen her ! 



She had long ago given up all hope of 

claiming the reward, and had often thought, 

before the family went away, of slipping the 

child into her father's gate some night. Her 

only fear was that some time — somewhere — 

she might possibly meet her. Babette would 

recognize her. She was afraid to risk it. 







S5 







Now the matter was settled. She was sorry 

to think the child would die, and never get 

back to her people. And yet, looking at it 

in another way, she almost hoped she might 

die. No one would suspect who she was. 

There would be one witness less. 



So one crime leads to another! When 

she was young the gypsy made up silly fort- 

unes, and told them as true to credulous 

people for money. She formed the habit of 

untruth. Thus the terrible crime of stealing 

a child, for the sake of money, became pos- 

sible. And now — oh, the horror of it ! — she 

hoped the sick child would die ! Murderous 

wish ! And yet the old woman was not at 

heart a murderer. If she had had Babette 

at the moment she was wishing she would 

die, she would have done all in her power 

to make her well. She was only a coward — 

a coward because of her guilty conscience. 

It is easy for a coward to become a criminal 

— simply because of his cowardice. 



The old gypsy was even fond of sweet, 

gentle, loyal little Babette ; and yet, be- 

cause she feared the time might come when 

Babette would point to her and say, " She is 

the old woman that carried me away and 

brought me back," she wished for her death. 







86 







If the gypsy slept during this night — this 

horrible, lonely, dark night ! — one would not 

like to answer for her dreams ; and yet, 

thinking of all the trials of her poor mis- 

guided life, one cannot help feeling sorry for 

her, and hoping that, for this night at least, 

she was enabled to forget, or to dream of the 

early days of her own life before she turned 

her feet into crooked paths. 



At dawn next morning she arose from her 

hiding-place. The habit of early rising was 

one of a lifetime, and there was something 

in daylight that seemed to open her eyes. 

She was stiff and sore. Her shoulders and 

arms ached, and she coughed. She had 

slept from sheer exhaustion ; but now, awake 

again, the events of last night were clear 

enough. Her first thought was that Noute 

would be looking for her. She must get 

back to the boat. Of course she had no 

suspicion of Noute's having followed her. 



Forcing herself out of her cramped posi- 

tion, she stepped out of her nook and began 

rubbing her arms and stamping her feet, try- 

ing to overcome the stiffness of her limbs. 

Then, taking off her shawl, she proceeded to 

shake it, when a noise quite near startled 

her. She looked up. Standing not more 







87 







than twenty -five or thirty feet away from 

her, rubbing his eyes and waking up, was 

Noute! He had spent the night at the 

other end of the show-case. The recognition 

was mutual, and yet, after they had dropped 

— as if shot — back into their own corners, 

both began to hope they had not been recog- 

nized. Indeed, the old woman was so filled 

with consternation at this unexpected sight 

of Noute, that she began presently to doubt 

her own eyes, and to think she had seen a 

vision. 



There was indeed something uncanny in 

the sudden appearance of his grotesque fig- 

ure, dimly seen in the half-light of a foggy 

New Orleans morning. They both sat still 

for some time fearing to move, and then they 

seemed anxious to reassure themselves, and 

presently began peeping cautiously around 

the show-case. And a very funny game of 

bopeep it was — between a haggard, super- 

stitious old woman, looking for a ghost, and 

poor, weak-minded, blinking Noute, now anx- 

ious only to get away. 



Growing restless, he happened to glance 

upward. Just above his head was an open- 

ing — the deep window from which the show- 

case had been removed. It took less time 







88 







for him to spring into this, and to rush 

through the old building, making his escape 

through a door opening on another street, 

than is required in the telling. 



Once safely out of sight, he took to his 

heels and ran until he saw the low bank of 

the bayou, when he proceeded leisurely to 

the boat. The gypsy continued the bopeep 

game at her end of the show-case for some 

time alone, venturing farther forward from 

time to time, until she suddenly realized that 

there was no one there. Then, more fright- 

ened than ever, she pulled herself up, and, 

limping across, made a careful examination. 



Not the slightest sign was there of any 

one's presence. She didn't even notice the 

dark opening above, or think of the possibility 

of Noute's escape. Shaking her head sadly 

and wondering, she hobbled away ; and when, 

an hour later, she reached the boat and saw 

Noute lying apparently asleep, she felt that 

something awful was going to happen. Here 

was Noute, just where she had left him. She 

had surely seen a ghost. As she stepped 

into the boat Noute poked his head from 

under the sail, rubbed his eyes, and yawned, 

with a finished hypocrisy that would have 

done credit to a brighter mind. 







89 



When the colored woman, Clarisse, had 

waited for some moments in the hall at the 

Bondurantes', and the gypsy did not come 

back, she stepped out on the porch to look 

for her. Finding that she had gone, the old 

negress was much startled, and when she 

went in she locked the door. 



Reluctant to believe the truth, the old 

doctor came himself, bringing a candle, and 

searched the porch and the yard below, fear- 

ing she might have fallen. And when he 

went in he, too, locked the door and felt un- 

comfortable. 



The mystery surrounding her lent a new 

interest to the sick child, and during all that 

night, and for days and weeks afterwards, 

while her life hung on a slender thread, she 

was kindly nursed and tended. 



Notwithstanding its polished floors, its fres- 

coed ceilings, and tapestried chambers, the 

handsome Bondurante home had for years 

been a house of mourning, and the solemn 

stillness that reigned throughout its parlors, 

halls, and galleries bore silent witness to the 

sorrow that had entered it nearly twenty 

years before. 



Then, in the autumn of 1853 — that year of 

the terrible epidemic that carried sorrow into 







go 



so many homes — two little coffins had been 

borne the same day out of the great iron 

gate by men in stockinged feet, so that the 

parents, who lay ill with the yellow scourge, 

should not know. 



Although this was more than nineteen 

years ago, the broken-hearted mother had 

never left the house since ; while the father, 

already rich from successful practice, had re- 

tired from the world, and devoted himself to 

the pursuit of science. 



Besides those whom we have seen — the 

doctor, his wife, and Clarisse — but one other 

person lived on the Bondurante place. This 

was " Uncle Tom," Clarisse's husband, a su- 

perannuated old negro who never left the 

yard. 



The closed house needed little tending, 

and neither the doctor nor madame would 

have their quiet lives disturbed by strange 

servants. Clarisse they had had always, and 

her services were sufficient for them. They 

had no company, excepting occasionally the 

priest, and their wants were few. The doc- 

tor himself supplied their small table from 

the French market. Uncle Tom answered 

the call of milkman or baker, swept the mag- 

nolia-leaves from the garden-walks, and filled 







9* 







up the moments between in rubbing his old 

rheumatic legs and smoking his pipe. 



And so, in one of the busiest quarters of a 

crowded city, these four old people had lived 

peacefully in undisturbed seclusion for all 

these years. The neighbors understood, and 

from the low-browed cottages that faced the 

square on all sides they looked with a rev- 

erential sympathy upon its high brick walls, 

as if they bounded a monastery or church ; 

and the pitiful story of the handsome son 

and beautiful daughter who had died the 

same day, while the parents were too ill to 

know, was told many times on summer even- 

ings by the mothers who sat in their white 

sacques on their low door-steps, surrounded 

by children who never tired of the touching 

recital. 



The stately old brick house, sitting dark 

and still, and growing dingy and time-stained 

in the centre of the old-fashioned garden, 

now a dense wilderness of riotous growth, 

dominated the neighborhood like an embod- 

ied sorrow, and the mothers looking upon 

it often drew their babes closer to their bos- 

oms, and sent up to Heaven a little prayer 

for the lonely mother in the big, sad house. 



The open bars of the heavy front gate gave 







92 



the curious their only chance of a peep with- 

in, disclosing a cold, broad front from which 

the gray plaster had fallen in patches, but 

over which a friendly ne of English ivy had 

thrown a rich cloak of green. 



On the parlor side of the great central hall 

the vine had left no hint of the windows be- 

neath, and had even ascended the roof, and, 

possessing itself of the chimney, made firm 

connection with the branch of an overhanging 

tree, where it mingled its rich, glossy foliage 

with festoons of gray moss, and was lost in a 

dense mass of color. Here the three growths 

all seemed struggling for supremacy, with 

about equal promises of success. 



From the two broad windows in the left 

side of the house a dim light shone through 

the heavy shade every night. This was the 

doctor's library and study. It had been his 

office in the old days of his practice — was 

" office " still to any of the poor in the neigh- 

borhood who asked his services. As it was 

well known that the doctor never sent any 

bills, however, he had little free practice. 

To go to him was a confession of poverty — 

an advertisement of it. Better go to some one 

who charged, even if one could never pay. 

Still, there were times when the good doctor 







93 



was called in, in extreme cases, because of his 

reputed skill, after others had failed. He. had 

been out on such a visit on the night of the 

storm. He had felt no special interest in the 

little home patient at first, beyond his anxi- 

ety to make her well and the natural feeling 

of sympathy one feels for a deserted child. 

There was something tragic in the incident. 

Her people, he surmised, were probably poor, 

starving wretches who, seeing that death 

seemed imminent, had deserted their child 

in her extremity to die and be buried by 

strangers. Of course, the doctor never doubt- 

ed that the old woman had voluntarily sought 

his gate. 



For more than a month it seemed that 

Babette would die — and yet she lived. Final- 

ly, the great dark eyes that had gazed va- 

cantly about the room turned appealingly to 

the faces about her bed; and when the gentle 

old mother, Madame Bondurante, bent over 

her to straighten her pillow, two thin little 

hands were clasped about her neck, and the 

parched lips kissed the old cheek that no 

child had kissed for twenty years. And then 

— oh, how strange it was that the old name 

should come back to her ! — the little lips said, 

" Tante Angele." 







94 



She was too young at the time she was 

stolen to remember the old nurse " Tante 

Angele," or even to recall her name in con- 

nection with any memory; but now, after the 

long season of fever and unconsciousness, it 

seemed as if early impressions were floating 

at random through her mind. The first co- 

herent words she had spoken for weeks were 

"Tante Angele," then she said "Nenaine" 

— her own name for her grandmother whose 

god-child she was. 



But the strangest part — the sweetest part 

as it turned out — is yet to come. Angele 

was Madame Bondurante's own name, and 

to hear it in tones of affection from the lips 

of the little sick child, who had so long been 

her constant care, touched her heart strange- 

ly. While the child's trembling arms were 

about her neck she had called her name — 

" Tante Angele " — and so fixed her own place 

in her heart. 



The old mother buried her face in the pil- 

low and wept. The little waif whom she 

had nursed back to life through charity — 

only because it had come into her way to do 

it — she had learned to love. 



When the doctor came in an hour after- 

wards he found her still weeping. Seating 









13 3 3 



I 







95 



himself beside the bed, he took the little 

wasted hand in his, and his own eyes were 

filled with tears. The presence of the child 

in the house, day in and day out, the awaken- 

ing love in both their hearts for her, had re- 

vived old memories. 



" Oh, my children, my children !" cried the 

old mother, burying her face in the pillow be- 

side the little stranger child ; while Babette, 

not understanding and indeed bewildered for 

the moment at her distress, looked in ques- 

tioning wonder from one to the other. She 

had a vague, misty impression that she had 

been away off somewhere and had gotten 

back. There was something indefinable in 

the refined atmosphere of the home into 

which she had fallen that seemed strangely 

familiar. She was still very weak, and dur- 

ing the first few days of her returning con- 

sciousness she would fall suddenly asleep, 

and on waking would start, as if not quite 

sure of where she was. Sometimes she 

would keep her eyes closed while she passed 

her little fingers over the silken spread and 

felt the linen pillow-case, as if to reassure 

herself before she dared look about her. 

Perhaps she was afraid lest she should wake 

suddenly some time to see the sky through 







96 







the cracks in Nick's roof, as she had done 

many a time during her life on the beach. 

Even the language about her puzzled her 

ears. Although she could not understand 

it, it was not wholly strange. For more than 

three years she had heard only — what shall 

we call it ? A unique patois certainly was 

this dago-English, with the intonation of the 

gypsy. And so the convalescent's recovery 

was somewhat retarded. 



Soon, however, there came a substitution 

of impressions. The things about her were 

real. The language had a meaning, and the 

memories of the beach, with its jargon, moved 

slowly back into mistiness and shadow. That 

was the dream now, and yet it was one that 

came to her many times, even while she lay 

with eyes open. 







CHAPTER VIII 



A SECOND month passed. Babette was 

getting well. Her beautiful long hair had 

long ago been sacrificed to the fever, and 

now her little round head was covered with 

short crisp rings of brown. As she sat, day 

by day, in the middle of madame's high soft 

bed — the greatest token of love, this, that 

madame could have shown her, surrounded 

by books, toys, flowers, everything that 

eager affection could suggest — one could see 

at a glance that she was the ruling member 

of a devoted household. 



Clarisse, the old colored woman, seemed 

quite as fond as the rest, and even Uncle 

Tom would hobble in and lay a great open 

magnolia blossom or a cr£pe-myrtle bloom 

upon the bed for "'tite mamzelle" 



Madame Bondurante was very busy these 

days. There were little clothes to be made 

for the convalescent, and she and Clarisse 

were to make them. The sweet secret of the 

mysterious coming of the child into their home 







98 







and hearts was too precious to be intrusted to 

any one else — yet. Madame never went out. 

She would not go now ; but did not Clarisse 

know what to buy for a little girl's wardrobe? 

She could go up to Canal Street to " Syme's " 

or " Levois & Jamison's," where she would be 

sure to find the best French prints for every- 

day wear, the finest merinos and plaids for 

" Sunday " dresses. 



These two old women, mistress and ser- 

vant though they were — formerly owner and 

slave — were bound to each other by many 

ties and by years of uninterrupted peaceful 

intercourse ; and while they sat and sewed 

together, clothing the new Joy in the house- 

hold in garments fashioned after those worn 

by the other who had passed out of it twen- 

ty years ago, they were as happy in their 

novel task and as unconscious of present 

styles as the child herself. 



It is true Babette did pout just a little, 

and declare that the broad lace -bordered 

pantalets, that came nearly to her little an- 

kle-ties, were " too long," and that the skirt, 

which stopped at the knees, was " too short ;" 

but when she glanced at the portrait above 

the mantel— the grandest picture of a little 

girl she had ever seen in her life — and saw 







99 



that her pantalets hung down in exactly the 

same way, she was quite satisfied. 



The girl in the portrait, sitting day and 

night so still in her deep gilt frame, holding 

a red rose-bud in one hand, while with the 

other she clasped the neck of a great shaggy 

dog, made a deep impression upon Babette. 

It was an imposing picture. 



Some day, when she should be able to 

make friends with the old dog who followed 

Uncle Tom around the yard, she would pick 

a red rose-bud and try to make a picture of 

herself like it. She had tried the pose as far 

as she could, holding up an imaginary rose- 

bud, before the glass under the pier- table, 

and it was really very good fun. 



It is true the old dog in the yard was not 

quite like the one in the picture, and the lit- 

tle girl was very different from herself, hav- 

ing two long braids of straight black hair 

hanging over her shoulders instead of a mass 

of short curls, but the marks of elegance were 

present in both. There were the low-necked 

dress, the short puffed sleeves, the long pan- 

talets. The rosebud and dog would make it 

quite complete. Just how elegant her new 

garments were she, of course, had not the 

slightest idea. 







Madame had been educated in a convent, 

and knew all the fine stitches of exquisite 

needle-work that were taught in those early 

days — that are taught just as thoroughly yet 

to any one who cares to learn. There were 

cambric ruffles with drawn threads — hem- 

stitched and trimmed with real Valenciennes 

lace, rolled and whipped so closely that one 

could hardly find the stitches on the quaint 

garments that delighted only approving eyes 

within the closely walled square. They were 

never seen without — would not be for many 

a long day, if ever. 



Madame had taught Babette to call her 

Tante Angele. The child herself had said 

the words. Before any one knew that the 

question would ever arise, she had uncon- 

sciously named the relationship, fixed her 

place. She was not to occupy the position 

of only a little waif dropped in from the 

street, neither had she intruded within the 

holy of holies. She had not said " madame" 

or" lady" after the' dago fashion, neither had 

she called her " mother." 



It is true, she had only once called the 

name " Tante Angele," and had then seemed 

to forget it, having even to be taught it as 

something quite new afterwards. 







101 







This madame regarded with a superstitious, 

feeling, and, not understanding how it had 

come to be lying with other half-forgotten 

names in the child's mind, to return as will a 

bit of an old song sometimes to older persons 

— to come and drop out as mysteriously — she 

said that the angels had told her name to 

the sick child. And she believed it, too. 



It is, perhaps, painful at first, this seem- 

ing transfer of the name of the old servant 

Angele to another, but it was only a co- 

incidence. Perhaps, as time wore on, it 

may have awakened associations or suggest- 

ed questions to the child's mind. She was 

given to thoughtful moods sometimes, and 

more than once, as she lay stretched at full 

length upon the rug before the fire, after one 

of her long silences, she said aloud, scarce 

above her breath, " Tante Angele — Tante 

Angele," as if the name had some mysteri- 

ous meaning to her. But, perhaps, some 

other time she called other names, and no 

one happened to hear. 



Madame heard this, however, and wondered 

just what it meant. Was she talking to the 

angels again ? 



There were many family portraits in the 

old house ; among them one of a sweet- 







102 







laeeo! woman, at which Babette was very 

fond of looking. " Who is that lady, Tante 

Angele?" she asked of madame one day, 



" That is my sister, who is in heaven — my 

sister Marie — " Madame spoke with some 

reluctance. She feared questions from the 

child, hardly knowing why. 



"And is she another one of my aunts?" 



The answer came slowly again : " Yes, 

ch£rie." 



" Was she my aunt Marie ?" 



" Yes, dear." 



" And was she little Marie's aunt Marie ?" 



" Yes, love." 



" And did she call her ' Tante Marie ' ?" 



" No, cherie. She called her ' Tantine.' " 



" What is Tantine, Tante Angele ? Is it 

aunt?" 



" It means ' little aunt,' cherie." 



Babette was thoughtful for a few min- 

utes, and asked no questions; but pres- 

ently she rose and went to madame, and 

climbed upon her lap. Then, putting her 

arm around her neck, she said: "Tante 

Angele, you are little. I want to call you 

Tantine. May I ?" 



"And don't you like to call me by my 

name — Tante Angele ?" 









BABETTE AND "LITTLE MARIE" 







103 



" Yes, I like it — for you, when I say it, 

Tante Angele ; but when I am not speak- 

ing to you, I don't like it for you. It is one 

of my dream names." 



" A dream name, my precious ? And what 

is a dream name?" 



" Oh, I don't know ; but I have a great 

many. There is ' Nenaine/ and ' Tante An- 

gele,' and — " 



" Never mind, my angel, dream names are 

foolish. Forget them. Call me Tantine ; I 

like it better, anyway." 



And she held Babette tight in her arms 

while she was speaking, as if she were afraid 

she might fly away. 



But a greater trial than this, even, came 

one day, and madame was not in the least 

prepared for it. Babette, since the night the 

gypsy had stolen her from her own people, 

had never heard her own name. The gypsy 

had heard her spoken of among the Le Char- 

mant servants as " Bebte" her pet name in 

the family, and though she well knew her 

own name, she naturally avoided using it. So 

she called her " Baby." If Babette had been 

asked her own name, at any time up to the 

night she had left the Sicilian household, she 

would have answered, in all honesty, " Baby," 







104 



or perhaps " Sissy," Nicholas, as the children 

often called her. 



But no one ever asked it. She had never 

thought it out, perhaps, and now she would 

never make this combination. But — well, 

she was beginning to ask herself questions. 



It was natural that madame and Clarisse 

should have called her " BMe " at first, for 

want of another name. Even had they known 

her real name they would as often have called 

the sick child by the tender diminutive ; but 

when she accepted the name so readily, the 

easiest thing to do was to let the subject drift 

along. 



The truth was, madame did as little think- 

ing as possible on the subject of Babette. 

She was afraid to think. She only knew 

that she was there. She was very dear. A 

question in any direction meant distress and 

perplexity of mind. 



And so when, one day, Babette asked sud- 

denly, " Tantine, is BMe my real name — was 

I christened Btbee ?" — she was obliged to an- 

swer, "No, my dear." 



" Well, then, Tantine, what is my real 

name ?" 



Madame's face did not betray the panic 

that reigned within her heart as she answered, 







105 



asking for forgiveness even while she spoke, 

"Your name is Marie." And to herself. she 

said, " I name her now Marie." 



"And am I named for my tante Marie, 

or for my cousin Marie?" 



" For both, my love." 



This much was true. In the brief moment 

when she had decided the name, it was given 

in memory of her best loved — child and 

sister. 



But the catechism lesson was not over yet. 



" And was I christened long ago, Tantine ?" 

she asked, presently. 



" Long ago — when you were small — yes, 

cherie. And now it is time for Bebe'e to 

come and take her nap. She is not very 

strong yet." 



Madame was safe in saying she had been 

christened — and long ago. It must have 

been so, else how was Nenaine (god-mother) 

a dream name? 



But she could not risk another question. 

Babette was not sleepy. She said so, and her 

bright eyes confirmed it. Then she must be 

hungry ? No ? Then they would take a walk 

in the garden and find some violets, or go 

out into the poultry-yard and see the little 

chickens. And so the subject was changed. 







io6 







The Bondurantes' was a changed home. 

Long-closed doors stood open ; sunshine and 

cheer had come in with the child. There 

were broken toys lying around in a disorder 

that told only of indulgence and devotion, 

and the old walls often echoed with merry 

laughter. The old couple were becoming 

bound up in the child to a degree that was 

indeed pathetic. 



And they had not thoughtlessly nor quick- 

ly taken her into their hearts. For weeks, 

although convinced by the evidence that 

she had been deserted by her own people, 

they had scanned the daily papers for no- 

tices of a lost child, and at every clank of 

the heavy knocker on the iron gate they first 

hoped and then feared that the old woman 

had returned to claim her. 



Now, when they loved her even as their 

own, there were times when they shuddered 

at the bare possibility of having, at some 

time, to give her up. During much of the 

nearly two months of her illness Babette's 

mind had been a blank, and as bits of her 

old life came back to her — names, faces, in- 

cidents — they seemed to belong to a far- 

away period, and what they all meant she 

did not understand. 







107 







One day, some months after her recovery, 

something happened that filled her with de- 

light, and frightened every other member of 

the household. Ever since he had seen her 

taken into the doctor's door on the night 

of the storm, Noute had come, whenever 

opportunity offered, and peered through 

the iron gate, hoping for a glimpse of the 

child. 



The old gypsy had been hopelessly crip- 

pled with rheumatism ever since that dread- 

ful night, and, after hobbling into town once 

or twice, she had come to terms with the 

French market tradesmen; and so now she 

always waited in the boat, while Noute left 

the basket of fish in the market and returned 

with the money. This gave him greater 

freedom than he had known before, and he 

never failed, both going and coming, though 

it was far out of his way, to pass by the gate 

and look for Babette. Even on the first occa- 

sion, when the gypsy had hobbled out herself, 

Noute had locked the boat to the shore and 

deserted it as soon as her back was turned, 

hurrying to the Bondurante gate, and getting 

back to the boat before her return. 



When several months had passed, and he 

had never seen her, he almost despaired ; but 







ioS 







still, faithful in his devotion, he continued to 

come. On this particular day he had waited 

as usual, and was just turning away when 

the little girl skipped across the yard, her 

hands full of roses. She recognized him in- 

stantly, and, running to the gate, handed him 

the flowers. 



Noute was wild with joy. After dancing 

and laughing and even crying a little in his 

old way for a moment, he hurriedly threw 

the roses back at her feet, and, with a series 

of quick gestures, ran away. What did he 

want with flowers ? All he had ever gathered 

were for her. 



Babette did not stop to pick them up, but, 

running into the house in great glee, told her 

" tantine," while she climbed into her lap, 

that " Noute had come ! and he had told her 

by his motions that he was coming again !" 



The sight of the mute seemed to revive a 

train of memories, for she began to tell her 

" aunt " and " uncle " all about " poor Noute 

who could not hear nor speak," of how " bad, 

drunken Nick had scolded and beaten him,'' 

and of many things of which she had never 

before spoken. 



Is it any wonder the old lady looked at 

her husband sorrowfully, and shook her 







iog 



head as she listened ? If some one knew where 

she was, and was coming back, surely there 

would be trouble. They would have to give 

up the child. 



Old madame was very pale, and her hand 

trembled as, stroking the little girl's curls, she 

told her never to go into the front yard again 

without her aunt or uncle. She held the 

child tightly in her arms a long time that 

night, and no one knew in the twilight that 

the old mother's face was wet with tears. 



On the next day the old doctor, his own 

heart unsteady with fear, said to his wife: 

"We cannot hide this dear child. She came 

to us unasked. It was the Lord's doing. She 

has blessed our home. Let us pray that she 

may not be taken away ; but if she must go, 

all the bolts and bars in Louisiana will not 

keep her." 



The doctor's words were wise, and yet, al- 

though his old wife, heeding them, let Ba- 

bette play at will anywhere within the gate, 

she kept her eyes upon her whenever she 

entered the front yard. And the gate was 

kept locked. 



A week after this — a week to a day from 

the time Noute had come — Babette sat upon 

the arm of madam e's chair on the front gal- 







lery. The old lady was nodding, while the 

little girl amused herself pinning long strings 

of four-o'clocks to her hair. Every now and 

then the head would bob so suddenly that a 

flower -curl would fall, and Babette would 

laugh aloud while she replaced it, when the 

old lady's eyes would half open, and then, 

smiling, she would go back to sleep. 



While they sat thus in the late afternoon 

the doctor came in hurriedly, leaving the 

iron gate ajar. Into this open gate, before 

any one had noticed him, without leave or 

license, walked Noute. Even Babette did 

not see him until he was half-way up the 

front steps. 



Going straight up to her, he laid a little 

bundle at her feet, stepped back to the foot 

of the stairs, dropped the larger parcel which 

he carried upon the bottom step, and sat 

down. This bundle contained an old blank- 

et, several articles of shabby clothing, and 

some scraps of tobacco— all the earthly pos- 

sessions of Noute the foolish. He had come 

to stay. 







CHAPTER IX 



Is it any wonder that the old lady screamed 

when, waking suddenly, she saw poor Noute 

sitting at the foot of the steps, a half-dozen 

feet away, blinking and grinning? Is it any 

wonder that, seeing him, she seized Babette 

and held her tightly in her arms? Noute 

was not beautiful or prepossessing. 



The doctor, hearing madame scream, ran 

out in alarm, fearing that something terri- 

ble had happened, and when he saw what 

had taken place he was startled and sorely 

puzzled. 



Intelligent communication with this un- 

canny-looking half-idiot seemed impossible. 

After thinking over the matter for a few mo- 

ments, during which time Noute's blinking 

eyes moved eagerly from one face to an- 

other of the three above him, the doctor de- 

cided that he must go. 



Going to him, he took his bundle from the 

step and pointed to the gate. Seeing that 

this had no effect, he moved towards the 







gate with the parcel ; but at this Noute only- 

fixed his eyes upon Babette with an expres- 

sion of helpless appeal that was pitiful. 



Evidently, if he were to go, his orders 

must come from the youngest person present. 

Noticing this, the doctor took Babette by 

the hand and bade her make him understand 

that he must go; but, instead of obeying, 

she threw herself in the old doctor's arms 

and began to cry, begging that Noute might 

stay. For a second time she was his cham- 

pion. 



Seeing her distress, the doctor sat down 

and drew her upon his lap, while he tried to 

reason with her. But with her arms half the 

time around his neck she told, between sobs, 

the pitiful story of Noute's life — as it came 

back to her, seeing him sitting there before 

her : of how Nick kicked and beat him ; how, 

rain or shine, cold or warm, he slept in the 

old boat ; how he worked and fished and 

made her pretty things, and never hurt any- 

body. He couldn't help being ugly, and 

blinking : God made him that way. 



How could they resist her? After a 

short whispered consultation they decided 

that perhaps it was best to let events take 

their own course in all things concerning the 







H3 



child. Excepting for their fears, this would 

have been the easiest thing to do, anyway. 

They were naturally kind to the poor and 

unfortunate. It was always easier to say yes 

than no. 



And so Noute stayed. Uncle Tom was 

called and instructed to give him — at least, 

for the present — a room in an outer build- 

ing in the yard. 



The old negro scratched his head, and 

looked very doubtful and suspicious when 

he saw the remarkable individual whom he 

was to instate as his own near neighbor ; 

but, hobbling off, he soon returned with a 

big iron key, signifying his readiness to 

obey. 



When he finally started across the yard 

Babette motioned to Noute to follow ; and, 

eager to see him installed, she skipped along 

at his side, while the doctor and his wife, 

with a nervous fear that the weird creature 

might seize the child and mysteriously dis- 

appear, followed slowly behind. 



Clarisse, hearing the commotion, had also 

come out to see, and now brought up the 

rear, wiping first one and then the other of 

her clean hands upon her apron as she 

walked — a way she had of expressing her 







114 







disapproval of things in general when words 

would have been out of place. It was a 

queer little procession. 



When Uncle Tom opened the door and 

put Noute's bundle in the room and point- 

ed to the bed, the poor creature seemed, for 

a few moments, to lose all control of himself 

in excess of joy. 



He skipped up and down the yard, threw 

up his hat and caught it, turned several som- 

ersaults, and finally, grinning and fanning 

himself with his hat, took his seat, for the 

first time in his poor life, on Ids own doorstep. 



Whether begged or borrowed, it was his 

room, his bed, his home — a home at the 

foot of the throne, upon which sat his little 

divinity, Babette. And so they left him 

— still grinning, blinking, and fanning — as 

happy as a lord. 



When they returned to the house the 

doctor went into his study, and for several 

hours he could be heard slowly walking 

up and down the length of the room. His 

hands were clasped behind his back, and he 

was lost in thought. 



Babette, remembering the little bundle 

Noute had brought her, ran back to the 

front porch, madame following. And these 







H5 







are the things the bundle contained : a little 

embroidered muslin dress, time-worn and 

yellow; a pair of blue kid slippers and silk 

stockings, wrapped in a blue cashmere cloak ;. 

and a long blue silken cord with heavy tas- 

sels. Tied in a separate parcel within the 

blue cloak was a red cotton kerchief filled 

with trinkets— a lot of pebbles and pretty 

shells, a tiny wooden boat, and various 

pieces of doll furniture. 



These things Babette recognized as her 

playthings of the beach. Noute had made 

them for her. But of the clothing she knew 

only a very little. 



She had seen the bundle tucked into a 

niche above the rafters in Nick's house, and 

1 'granny" had told her that they were her 

" christening clothes," and some day she 

would wear them, when they would go to 

the city in a boat. 



When they came to the city she was sick, 

and granny was in a hurry. Maybe she for- 

got to bring them ? This was all she knew. 

Did Tantine know any more ? Did her own 

mother make the christening dress, or did 

Tantine make it? Why did they send her 

to live with granny ? 



These were questions hard to answer, but 







n6 







madame knew not whether they were hard 

or easy. She scarcely heard them. She 

seemed to be in a dream. It was all so 

strange. Here were new items — even a new 

name — "granny." She was, no doubt, the 

old woman who had deserted the sick child 

— was her "grandmother," just as they had 

suspected. 



Every word had fallen like lead upon the 

old lady's heart, and as she turned the dain- 

ty garments over and over on her lap with 

trembling fingers tears blinded her eyes. 



" Why do you cry, Tantine ? Do my 

christening clothes make you think of my 

mother, or of your little girl Marie? Don't 

cry, Tantine. Let us put them away." So, 

smothering her old face with kisses, Babette 

comforted madame in the best way she 

knew. 



The bundle of clothing told a new story. 

Unless the child had been the protegee of 

some rich woman who had given her these 

garments, she was herself of refined people, 

as every feature and instinct had already de- 

clared. Rich people do not often give such 

garments as these to the poor. It was a great 

mystery. 



The old couple sat up very late that night, 







H7 







talking over Noute's coming; but the wife 

did not tell her husband about the mysteri- 

ous clothing. She was afraid. 



During the first few days after Noute's 

arrival Babette prattled often of the past, 

but her words gave no clew to her history. 

There were "pebbles," "shells," "a boat." 

There must have been a sea -shore — but 

where ? 



Noute the foolish, the dumb, coming as a 

representative of her people, instead of an- 

swering any of their questions, seemed like a 

grotesque interrogation -point, punctuating 

every mental query with a final doubt. And 

yet, try as hard as they might, they could 

not be quite sorry he was mute. It was as 

if a suddenly discovered door, through which 

Babette might escape, had been found safely 

locked and barred. 



The child occasionally spoke of strange 

children, but their Italian names, while they 

confirmed first suspicions, really told as little 

as those she had called before — granny, Nick, 

or Noute. 



Noute had appeared in the flesh, it is true, 

but he could not even speak for himself, 

much less could he unfold Babette's strange 

story — or even such bits of it as he knew. 







n8 







There was no name on the clothing. Of 

course, madame never thought of anything 

so absurd as looking inside the blue tassels. 



Noute proved all Babette had promised 

for him — he was industrious, obedient, and 

obliging. When Uncle Tom handed him 

a broom— and the old man presented it at 

arm's-length — he nearly swept the ground 

away. There were no more leaves for the old 

rheumatic to pick up. After being shown 

once how to do any simple mechanical work, 

Noute needed no further teaching — no re- 

minding. 



Seeing how capable he was, Uncle Tom 

began to recover some of his old ambitions 

regarding the old garden. The box-hedge 

bordering many of its curiously shaped flow- 

er-beds had grown disorderly and irregular. 

He easily showed Noute, by clipping it for 

a short distance himself, how to restore it 

to its old primness of outline, and soon 

every border within the square presented a 

surface as level as a table. 



The cocoa-grass, that had for years held 

undisputed sway in the interstices between 

the bricks of the winding walks, denning the 

design in which they were laid in a bright 







119 







green bobbinet figure stretched diagonally, 

was the next object of Noute's attention ; 

and then the bricks themselves came in for a 

peeling process. Whether coated in moss or 

lichen or velvet mould, it was all one to the 

keen edge of Noute's trowel. But full joy 

came with the laying on of the red wash. 

Not a brick within the four streets dared 

show a bearded face but with one swoop 

of his razor-edged tool it was clean shaven, 

while a sweeping touch of the brush restored 

its blooming color. 



It was not long before Noute was gener- 

ally acknowledged to be a most valuable 

acquisition. Capable in many ways, he was 

ever willing. There was only one thing 

that he would not do. He would not leave 

the yard. When directed on one occasion to 

go out on a simple errand, he sat flat upon 

the ground and refused to move. 



Perhaps he dimly realized that the iron 

gate was the visible boundary between his 

present life of comparative luxury and the 

former one of privation and abuse. And 

then Babette was within these walls — Ba- 

bette who had fought for him on the beach, 

who had pleaded for him with tears at the 

big gate, the sweet child Babette — all he 







loved in the whole wide world. Maybe if he 

should ever go out, the gate would be locked. 



Whenever there was no special duty in 

sight and he was tired cutting cocoa-grass — 

for no one who undertakes to keep down the 

aspiring heads of a cocoa-crop can ever say 

he has nothing to do — he rested himself by 

such change of occupation as he found in 

making pretty things for Babette. 



There were soon little rustic seats under 

many of the trees for her, swings wherever a 

projecting limb offered a suggestion, while 

the great spreading oak, that cast its shade 

over a broad space within one corner of the 

square, held up in its bosom a perfect bijou 

of doll-houses. A narrow stair, rudely made 

but strong, wound around its trunk, leading 

to a room above, in which, besides many ex- 

pensive toys, were various articles of doll- 

furniture of Noute's making. Within the 

one small door of this playhouse, surround- 

ed by her numerous doll - family, Babette 

would sit in her little rocker, singing some 

preferred baby to sleep. 



The doctor's hammock hung from the oak 

at the foot of the winding stair, and often 

in the summer afternoons, while languidly 

swinging, he would close his book or lay 







aside his paper, and enter into a game of 

" playing ladies " with the little house-keeper 

above his head. Conversations would gener- 

ally begin in about this fashion. Of course 

they were always in French, though occa- 

sionally Babette's answers were interspersed 

with English words of very mixed accent. 



"Isn't it getting too cold for you, Mrs. 

Highflyer, so far north?" the doctor would 

begin. 



" Not at all, doctor; but it makes my chil- 

dren very sick." 



" That is too bad ; you'd better bring them 

south and let me treat them." 



" Well, I think I will bring a few who have 

the worst sicknesses." And down the little 

doll-mother would trudge, her arms full of 

sick babies. 



If the littlG maman wanted medicine given 

in abundance, she was not disappointed. The 

doctor would send her over to " Dr. Indian 

Shot's drug-store " for pills for the rag-baby 

who had measles, and away she would go, 

and bend down the tall, dry seed-pods of the 

canna stalks for the pills which " Dr. Indian 

Shot " always kept in stock. 



Of course the rag-baby would be bad, and 

have to be spanked before she would swal- 







122 







low them. Dolls usually have to be spanked 

before they will take any medicine, and es- 

pecially rag-dolls, who have no noses to be 

held. 



The wax-doll was often pronounced in a 

"dangerous condition," rolling her eyes as if 

she were " going into fits." She must have 

mustard-plasters — tiger-lily petals — tied on 

wrists and ankles. 



Another, who was " bilious," needed a 

capsule of rhubarb — a whole acorn ; while 

yet another, deathly pale with the paint 

all washed off her face, needed nourishing. 

Fresh milk from the fig-leaves — exactly an 

acorn-cupful every fifteen minutes — would 

bring back the color to her cheeks. The 

black baby who bled sawdust had to be 

bandaged, and, indeed, there was, according 

to all accounts, not a healthy doll in the 

lot. 



Happy days were these for Babette ; hap- 

py days for the old doctor ; happy, happy 

days for all who loved the sweet child. 



The doctor, indeed, loved her as if she 

had always been his own ; and when his wife 

taught her that she was, in truth, their veri- 

table niece, and that they had sent her to 

the sea-shore for a time so that she might 







123 







grow strong, he had not the heart to inter- 

fere. So Babette, or Bdbcc, as she was al- 

ways called, lived on, happy in the unques- 

tioning belief that she was a real niece of her 

dearly beloved " aunt " and " uncle." 



It is a pity when devotion is so short- 

sighted as to place those we love best in a 

false position ; and yet these awful mistakes 

are made every day in this mistake-making 

world, with so much suffering and pain as a 

result. 



Of course it became known in the neiVh- 



o 



borhood after a time that a child had come 

into the great, still house ; and when some 

one said it was a niece, another answered: 

"Oh no, not a niece — a great-niece, maybe. 

Dey have many r/Z/ation, but for twenty 

years dey have not seen one. For a whole 

year— yes, two year — carriages come an' stop 

at de door ; but madame, she see nobody. 

So dey come no more. Now, maybe one of 

doze niece or cousin is die an' leave a child, 

and dey take it, or maybe one orphan asy- 

lum give it ; but I b'lieve not. Doze Bon- 

durante don't wait twenty year to pick a or- 

phan when dey want one. No ; dat chile, 

she is got good blood. You can see dat on 

'er face. She is Bondurante — on'y not a 







I2 4 







niece — maybe a great-niece; but it's all de 

same. An' it's a good t'ing — yas." 



A number of nodding heads showed ap- 

proval of the speaker's sentiments. 



It was a good thing that the doors of the 

great house were opened and sunshine had 

flowed in — so all agreed. 



And so curiosity was satisfied. No one 

beyond the walls knew any of the real cir- 

cumstances of Babette's coming, excepting 

the old gypsy. And she would never tell. 



As a matter of fact, the Bondurantes' only 

near of kin were a sister of the doctor and 

her family living in France. 



If any of their distant connections, of 

whom there were many, heard of their 

adopting a child, they would take little in- 

terest in the fact. They had been denied 

admittance as comforters. They would not 

go to congratulate. 



The true story, so far as the family them- 

selves knew it, was pretty safe. 



When madame said, " She is our niece," 

Clarisse would have sworn to it. 



It may seem strange that they did not as- 

sociate this child with the little one stolen 

several years before ; but yet there was 

every reason why they should not have 







:?5 







done so. Had not they, with their own 

eyes, seen her deserted by her own grand- 

mother ? 



The only possible suggestion of the little 

Le Charmant child was the description of 

the clothing, which madame had put out of 

sight and mind as quickly as possible, not 

because of any definite suspicion, but for 

their definite hint that there might be a 

mystery back of her desertion. 



The loss of the Le Charmant child had 

made no more impression upon her sad 

heart than any of the ordinary heart-rend- 

ing stories of the daily papers in its chil- 

dren's death-list. 



And now, having taken a strange child 

into her affections, she naturally put from 

her all disturbing thoughts, and came back 

to the unquestioning joy of loving, which 

was as wine to her starved heart. 



How little or how much Noute knew, 

no one could surmise. Poor Noute was a 

strange mixture. Some things he knew in a 

detached way, while simple facts, seeming 

quite a part of these things, found no lodg- 

ing in his mind. Perhaps he had never got- 

ten so far along in thinking as to need the 

word because. If he saw light and shadow, 







126 







they were to him only dark and light, not 

one existing because of the other. And yet 

he evidently knew some things that surprise 

us. He knew that the child brought to the 

boat on Mardi-Gras night had worn clothing 

that was laid aside. He knew where it was 

kept, and had stolen it and brought it back. 

Exactly how much more he knew, maybe 

some day he might tell. 







CHAPTER X 



" Can horses hear, Tantine?" Babette had 

climbed upon the arm of the doctor's chair, 

and sat with her arm around his neck as, 

turning towards madame, she asked the sim- 

ple question. 



" Can horses hear?" the doctor repeated. 

" Why, my dear, certainly. Haven't they 

ears? God made ears to hear." 



" Noute has ears, and he can't hear. For 

what did God make Noute's ears ?" 



"Yes, Noute's ears were made to hear, and 

Uncle's Tom's legs were made to walk. Un- 

cle Tom's legs are sick now and he can't walk. 

Noute's ears are sick." 



" Why don't you cure them, then ? You 

are a doctor. You cured me when I was 

sick. You are curing Uncle Tom's legs, and 

he walks with crutches." 



She slipped off the arm of the chair to his 

lap as she continued, now in a pleading tone: 



"Please try to cure poor Noute's ears. Just 

think, he doesn't even know his own name, 







128 







and when he goes to heaven where he can 

hear — Tantine says he will hear in heaven — 

he won't know when the angels call him. 

Even if God made an angel write it for him, 

he couldn't read it. I can read it in print 

letters like Tantine teaches me, and I am 

only seven. And Clarisse says Noute is old. 

Many times at night, when I say my prayers, 

I think about poor old Noute." 



Before she had gotten from his lap the 

good old doctor had promised, while he 

kissed her, to try to open the ears of Noute 

" the foolish." 



Babette was nearly eight years old now. 

It was time she should begin to study regu- 

larly from books. It had been time for a 

year the old people thought, but they had 

kept putting it off, and madame had even 

tried to teach her herself. This had been 

but a poor success, however, as Babette had 

found as many " whys " to ask about the let- 

ter A, for instance, as there were characters 

in the entire alphabet, and half of them 

madame could not answer. The simple act 

of laying a book upon her knee between the 

child she so dearly loved and herself seemed 

to be a declaration of war. 







I2Q 







It was hard to realize that the same patient, 

loving hands that wrought the beautiful and 

patient stitches in Babette's numerous em- 

broidered dresses were raised to Heaven in 

utter despair a dozen times in a fifteen-min- 

utes' reading or writing lesson ; but so it was 

— not that the little pupil was stupid or way- 

ward ; far from it ; she seemed rather to be 

too full of ideas. All around the lesson they 

would flutter like a swarm of gay butterflies, 

settling everywhere, anywhere, excepting on 

the desired figure or word. It was madden- 

ing. Such effort is always maddening to all 

save those favored ones who have a gift at 

this sort of butterfly catching. Such are the 

real teachers. The others try to drive them 

away — and go mad. 



And yet, although the question of Babette's 

schooling was so serious a one from every 

point of view, madame it was who continu- 

ally put it off. It would mean either the 

coming in of a governess or the child's going 

out to school. She grew jealous at the bare 

thought of either. It would take her chere 

B^be'e out of her arms — figuratively at least. 

But it could not forever be averted — and 

Babette was growing so tall. 



Just at the time when madame and the 



9 







130 







doctor were consulting together, casting 

about for a suitable school or teacher, hoping 

to find either to-morrow or next day — never 

to-day — a letter came to the doctor that de- 

cided the matter for the present, at least. It 

would be an experiment, but there was much 

to recommend it. 



The doctor's letter was from a college 

friend of his youth, now a sugar-planter of 

the Lafourche country. He had a son whom 

he wished to send to New Orleans to com- 

plete his medical education. Would the 

doctor interest himself in finding a pleasant 

and safe home for him? 



" He is a fine, honest country lad," the 

father wrote, " and I hope to give him the 

educational advantages of your great city 

without exposing him to its dangers. He is 

a good English and Latin scholar, and would 

be glad of an opportunity to defray the cost 

of the medical course he has begun by tutor- 

ing, and I should encourage the manly effort 

even did my circumstances not demand it; 

but you know the war has left us all poor. 

My first choice would be to have him with 

you, but I do not ask so much. Do with him 

as you think best." 



What an opportunity for mutual advan- 







I3i 



tage ! Madame declared that the letter was 

a direct answer to her prayers. 



Here was a youth — a gentleman's son, of 

whom his father could say " he is a fine, 

honest lad," educated, ambitious, anxious to 

teach — a stranger who would not have heard 

any possible gossip, and who would not be 

full of curiosity. He would believe what he 

was told, and that would be an end of it. 

So much for their share of the benefit. 



For the young man there would be the 

famous Dr. Bondurante to superintend and 

direct his studies, the free use of an excep- 

tional library, a refined and elegant home. 



At least, they would try it. And this is 

how John McDonald came into the house- 

hold of Dr. Bondurante. 



He was a tall, somewhat awkward, but dig- 

nified youth of nineteen years. His crisp, 

curling auburn hair and dark, direct eyes 

hinted of the Scotch ancestry already sug- 

gested by his name. Shy at first, reticent, 

yet quick and intelligent — a gentleman, car- 

rying in his steady eyes that which bespeaks 

a fixed and high purpose — is it any wonder 

that he was immediately liked and respected, 

and soon loved by all the household ? 



He felt a little timid in beginning his du- 







132 



ties as teacher to the petted French-talking 

child, but he soon won her affectionate re- 

spect by invariable gentleness, patience, and 

firmness, and forthwith became a hero in her 

eyes — a hero with only grand and stately 

qualities* And yet when lessons were over 

he would often join in her amusements, until 

it seemed almost as if she had found a play- 

fellow. Stilly there was a difference, for 

while he would sit with her under the oak 

and whittle a branch, cut from above his 

head, into some fantastic shape for her 

amusement, he would, perhaps, be explain- 

ing its beautiful markings, the delicate 

birthday rings that were traced in clear lines 

from core to bark, or how the dark knot 

running through it had come from the early 

growth of a twig, to which the rings had 

adapted themselves. Or, taking a micro- 

scope from his pocket, he would introduce 

her to the strange, amusing families of tiny 

creatures who had set up house-keeping and 

started villages within the peeling bark. 



Not a branch or tree or fruit or flower but 

had a story to tell, though some slyly kept 

half their secrets, and told the rest only on 

compulsion. 



Even a slab of mould rescued from 







133 



Noute's trowel became, beneath John's mi- 

croscope and through his delightful talks, a 

wonder-land better than a fairy's wood, be- 

cause its inhabitants were real, living, breath- 

ing, working creatures.' Its trees came up 

and grew and died. Its soil was our own 

earth, moist or dry, healthy or not, according 

to the sun, the winds, the rain, scourge, or 

earthquake — the last represented by Noute's 

destroying hand. 



Babette's little world, bounded by four 

streets and including but five persons in its 

community all told, may seem rather small ; 

but when John had opened the doors of a 

dozen wonder-worlds to her, not counting 

the history-stories to be traced out on maps 

in the big geography, she found her ac- 

quaintance widening day by day, until it 

was far more extensive and interesting than 

the gay circles of many children who go out 

into the great world and see strange sights 

with but half-open eyes. 



Let the boy who doubts this put a good 

microscope in his pocket, and the first 

time he treads on an ant-hill and recovers 

from his first impulse to run — or even if he 

has run, let him come back, turn his glass 

into down -trodden and panic-stricken Ant- 







134 



ville, and study the inhabitants for a little 

while. If he does not come away with a 

more kindly feeling for the poor despised 

little creatures than he ever had before, 

there will be something wrong with the 

boy. 



Babette's mind was soon as eager in its 

interest in all her new studies as her heart 

was in its sympathies. 



John McDonald's " experiment " had very 

soon proven a success. 



And so let us leave Babette awhile in 

this happy atmosphere of affection and im- 

provement, with a devoted " aunt " to moth- 

er her, a doting " oncle " to idolize and near- 

ly spoil her, a faithful tutor to direct her 

young mind into channels of elevating 

thought, Noute to receive little kindnesses 

at her hands, keeping her heart tender 

through the blessedness of giving — let us 

leave her here, safe among refining influ- 

ences, as if in answer to the prayers of her 

own people, while we go in search of those 

who still hope and pray that she may some 

day be restored to their loving arms. 



The Le Charmants were still living in 

France. At the end of the first year — the 









A WONDERLAND BETTER THAN A FAIRY'S WOOD' 













135 







time originally set for their return — Colonel 

Le Charmant felt that to come back would 

be folly. His wife's health had improved, 

the children were all well placed at the best 

schools, and as for his business it had nev- 

er done half so well when represented by an 

agent. And so, year after year, they had 

stayed until the question of their return 

began to change from " Why not go ?" to 

"Why go?" Thus the years passed — ten, 

eleven, twelve, thirteen. Two of the daugh- 

ters were grown and married — Clothilde in 

Paris, and the eldest, 'Toinette, to an Amer- 

ican, who had brought her back to New 

York. 



So the family were scattered, and when 

one day Colonel Le Charmant came home 

and said, " We must go back ' home ' — to 

America," the mother, without a word of dis- 

agreement or protest, willingly turned her 

face towards the land to which one child 

had already returned, and which still held 

the last fragmentary hope of yet recovering 

the dear lost Babette. 



The old house down in the French quar- 

ter seemed to wake from a thirteen years' 

sleep on the day the news came to prepare 

for the family. 







I3t> 







Passers along the street, who had grown 

accustomed to its blank, expressionless front, 

were startled one morning to see the banis- 

ters along the broad galleries hung with 

rugs and mats, while a yellow woman, her 

head tied up in a towel, energetically 

mopped the cobwebs from transoms and 

ceilings. The old home was waking up, 

wiping its eyes after a long sleep, shaking 

itself and stretching. 



When, three weeks later, two carriages 

rolled up to its gate one evening, it was 

wide-awake, washed and combed, and in cos- 

tiune de rigueur for the occasion. 



As one looked at its brightly lighted win- 

dows, it seemed all eyes to greet the re- 

turned — all arms to embrace them, as he 

glanced at its broad open balcony and stair- 

way. 



A rushing, jabbering, laughing, weeping 

lot of cousins — cousins to the most distant 

remove— flocked out to the gate to receive 

them, followed by a troop of old family ser- 

vants, with their children and grandchil- 

dren — black, brown, yellow, tan ; turbaned, 

aproned, beflowered, and befeathered — the 

younger standing timidly back, while the 

older ones clasped the waists and knees of 







137 



the mother and grandmother, or, gathering 

up the children bodily, carried them into 

the house. 



These last were of the turban ed sort, who 

still don their white aprons for full-dress oc- 

casions, and simply tie an extra frill into 

their tignons and polish their hoop earrings 

for a christening or wedding. 



Excepting the few who had been sum- 

moned back "home" to anticipate their re- 

turn, the crowd of servants were living about, 

mainly in the service of the Le Charmant 

connection. But that did not hinder their 

coming for this important and exciting occa- 

sion to swell the welcoming group. And 

they would all drop in again from time to 

time after the arrival of the trunks, and not 

one would find herself forgotten. 



But what a time there was to-night ! What 

a babel ! 



Arthe, who promised to be the runt of the 

family, had shot up like an Easter lily, until 

her flower-like face turned itself down in the 

same fashion as the flower, as she bent to 

kiss her cousin Fifine, born the same day. 

Marie and another cousin were placed back 

to back to measure the advantage gained 

on either side. 







133 







The old pencil-marks, with the names an- 

nexed, were found on the library door-facing, 

and the mother ran with a merry face to 

compare heights with the long-ago measure- 

ments. Nobody seemed to have stood quite 

still. Maman was "just a weeny bit taller" 

than the old mark. " Ah, but her heels were 

higher !" " G'an " had grown down-hill. 



It was great fun, and yet, while she laid a 

book above the young heads as they pre- 

sented themselves, the mother's face lost its 

merry smile, and a quiet pallor took its place 

when, having measured the last applicant, 

she turned sadly away. 



Away down, lower than the rest, against a 

dimly pencilled line, she had found written in 

clear letters, " Babette." 



Early the next morning the children — 

children still, though several topped their 

handsome mother by a "so-much" — were 

out of bed, wandering about the grounds, in- 

vestigating — noting the changes of the years. 



The magnolia- trees, with all their stately 

growth, had kept young, polished, and mod- 

ern ; the crepe-myrtles, remembered as blush- 

ing as pink-cheeked school-girls, had taken to 

themselves long gray beards, through which 







139 







the coral bloom showed here and there like 

toothless gums ; the rose-vines had climbed, 

and the orange-trees died. 



The older children remember these things, 

and the younger ones, listening, think they 

do. Even the two born in France begin, in 

a few days, to " remember " various things 

about the old home, much to the amusement 

of the entire family. 



The home-coming is only a gala occasion 

for the children, but for the mother and 

grandmother, following them from place to 

place with subdued smiles and a languid in- 

terest, it is full of reminders, in every nook 

and corner, of the little lost one, whose name 

neither has found courage to speak. 



Thirteen years have whitened the mother's 

hair, and her quiet, sweet face tells its own 

story of submission and trust. 



It is a time of diversion and new interests 

for all. 



The parlors are faded, dingy, and old-fash- 

ioned ; they must be renovated. The house 

needs a new room here— a balcony must be 

added there. 



While they readjust themselves to the old 

home and its conditions, let us leave them, 

and go back to the iron gate of Dr. Bondu- 







140 







rante — "but a stone's-throw away/' as one 

might say. 



Our heart gives a bound, and we wonder 

what have been the changes of the eight 

years that have passed since we took leave 

of the happy circle within, while with un- 

steady fingers we raise the heavy knocker, 

and it falls with a ringing clank! 







CHAPTER XI 



The sound of the old knocker is as start- 

ling as the voice of a friend heard after a 

long absence. 



While a host of misty pictures of the past 

rise before us at its sound, and we wait with 

trembling heart for the appearance of an ex- 

pected form or face, a subtile odor comes 

from the old garden like a breath. It brings 

so keen a sense of the real presence of scenes 

dear and familiar that we almost hope to 

see the picturesque little figure of Babette, 

in flowing hair and long pantalets, tripping 

across the yard as of old. 



The breath is the garden's own. In it are 

the pollen-dusts of a half-dozen flowering 

vines; the pungent fragrance of coral mag- 

nolia seed — one crushed here and there by 

a passing foot; the leathery smell of the 

tanned flower-leaves curling in rolls upon the 

dank grass, amid a waste of odorous pollen- 

tipped " matches " from the cone-heart of the 

fallen blossoms. Clumps of freckled pump- 







142 







kin-colored tiger-lilies give prodigally to both 

bee and air of their mustard hearts, and 

masses of violets cluster along shaded bor- 

ders. There is the odor of the swinging 

moss, and the suspended wasp-nest contrib- 

utes its musty danger- smell. Adown the 

walks an occasional tiny heap of newly cut 

grass is topped by a fresh slab of mould, emit- 

ting its earthy breath, and inviting the spar- 

row to dine on its panic-stricken inhabitants. 



We recognize the same old pattern of the 

bricklayer's fancy along the walks, outlined 

in a flat green ribbon of closely clipped co- 

coa-grass, while an occasional shoot holds 

up a defiant pair of blades, recalling the old 

woman who would say " scissors." 



There are changes in the house's front. 

Two great windows have opened through 

the solid wall of ivy on its parlor side, and 

from the narrow opening between its bowed 

shutters fleecy curtains of snowy lace float in 

and out in the breeze. The tall white urns 

guarding the front steps have given up their 

volunteer crops of purslane and golden-rod, 

and are aglow with scarlet geraniums and 

trailing garlands of money -wort. The old 

doctor's arm-chair has disappeared from the 

balcony. 







M3 



How quickly the eye takes in all these 

things, recognizing familiar features, and 

noting the changes far more quickly than 

one is able to recount them. 



The echo of the knocker seems still in 

our ears when the front door opens and the 

blinking face of Noute appears. Turning 

back as he sees us, he seizes a card-tray, and 

as he comes forward now and opens the gate 

he presents it with the explanation that 

" No one may come in to-day. Madame is 

no better. Everybody is asked to leave a 

card." 



Noute the deaf, the dumb, is hearing, and 

has spoken ; and now, in answer to further 

inquiry, he goes on to say : 



" Oh yas, Mamzelle Bebee is dhere, and 

me an' Clarisse, and anudder woman — a sick- 

nurse — and of course Dr. McDonald — " 



"And the doctor—?" 



" Ah yes, certainly, Dr. McDonald and an- 

udder, and some days still anudder comes — " 



" But Dr. Bondurante ?" 



" Dr. Bondurante ! Ah-h-h !" Tears start 

afresh, and are quickly bestowed along the 

length of his sleeve, as he exclaims, after the 

manner of the Bondurante household, under 

pressure of emotion, "Ah-h-h! Poor Dr. 







144 







Bondurante! Since t'ree — " (three weeks 

or three years, he is not sure which) " Dr. 

Bondurante, he is dead ; or, mayfo, it is t'ree 

months yet. Mamzelle Bebee was so high ; 

to-day she stands — " And Noute the 

" foolish " raises his hand from his first low 

measurement in a wavering, uncertain way, 

indicating Babette's supposed height, now 

even with his own chin, now at his nose's 

tip, and now between the two. 



" I t'ink it is t'ree weeks past," he con- 

tinues, after a moment of blinking uncer- 

tainty, " or, maybe, t'ree mont's. T'ree 

times de yellow roses come since. He was 

asleep in de swing." 



Poor Noute's wandering efforts at expla- 

nation are unsatisfactory and puzzling — nay, 

more, they are painful. 



As we turn away, our eyes fall for the first 

time upon a bright sign on the left side of 

the gate. It is so near that we start upon 

discovering it almost against our shoulder. 

" Dr. John McDonald " is its simple inscrip- 

tion. Only a doctor's sign, nothing more, 

and yet it tells a new chapter in our story. 



An aged shopkeeper, a hunchback, who 

lives directly across the street, tells us the 

rest. 







145 



Needless to say his native tongue is 

French — he is a Creole — and having said 

this, still more superfluous is it to add that 

he is polite and kindly. 



" Since t'ree years pass," he begins, draw- 

ing out a stool and offering it, " the old doc- 

tor went one day to sleep in his hammock. 

When they found him it was the month of 

Mary, and yellow lady-bank roses lay one 

over another on all the vines, and the flow- 

ers Mamzelle Bebee had laid in his arms were 

yet fresh. 



" Mamzelle Bebee was not there when they 

went to wake him. She had gone an hour 

before with Ma'am McDonald — the mother 

to the young Dr. McDonald — to the La- 

fourche country. Only one yellow -fever 

case was reported at the quarantine, and 

they sent mamzelle away, so much afraid, 

remembering how it robbed them before. 



" When she ran to tell her uncle good-bye 

he was asleep, and she did not wake him, 

only filled his arms with the flowers, and, 

kissing his hair, left him so. The flowers 

would tell him she had said good-bye, and 

she would soon be back. This was at the 

end of May only, and yet Ma'am Bondu- 

rante would not let mamzelle come home 







146 







until the frost. Tree times they have sent 

her there, and every time she goes and 

comes she is prettier than the last time, and 

sweeter. When this time she came back 

to find the doctor gone— they never wrote 

her of his death — madame was afraid if 

she grieved she might be ill ; but when 

she came and saw madame alone, and so 

changed and sad, she said she would never 

leave her again. And she has kept her 

word. 



" Ma'am Bondurante is never the same 

since then, and but for mamzelle they say 

she would not be here now. Tis true mam- 

zelle is her niece, but many daughters are 

not so loving. And she is so beautiful — so 

good to the poor ! 



" Everyw'ere you see the little old lady 

wa lk — along the galerie, through the yard 

— mamzelle is walking by her side, holding 

her arm maybe, or laughing. They are like 

two morning-glories — madame of yesterday's 

blooming, shrivelled and old ; mamzelle, ris- 

ing above her, as a dew-tipped flower just 

expanded and catching the first sun. 



" Ah, well ! We will see them so never 

again, I believe. So the nurse, Madelaine, 

she tells me. To-day, or to-morrow at the 









BUT FOR MAMZELLE THEY SAY SHE WOULD NOT BE 

HERE NOW" 







147 



latest, she will pass. And mamzelle, they 

say she will be the heir. She deserves it, 

y es — if s he got twice more yet. Same as 

mother and father — and, like I said, better 

than mci7iy — she loved that old aunt and 

uncle. 



"And Dr. McDonald? Ask the neigh- 

borhood. Everybody, black and w'ite, love 

to see him pass in and out. And many fine 

positions he has refuse in the ' Charity 

Hospital,' the « Hotel Dieu.' And in other 

cities, even, they want him. But he will 

not leave Ma'am Bondurante and mamzelle. 

But he has plenty practice. Even the old 

doctors send for him. He makes a great 

deal of money; mats, he gives half away. 

If he and mamzelle — of course everybody's 

business is for himself; but if only he and 

mamzelle — it would be a pretty match. 

They are a beautiful pair when they stand 

together in the garden — she, so dark, so 

laughing, always making fun ; he, tall, fair, 

serious. If only the old people could have 

lived to see that !" 



The garrulous old dealer in paper flowers, 

holy candles, rosaries, and " religious articles " 

in general, would have talked all day to a 

patient listener. 







148 







These were, indeed, trying times for Ba- 

bette; and when she had at last, a few days 

later, returned from the funeral of her bene- 

factress to the great silent house, she felt 

lonely indeed. But she was not friendless, 

even though her circle was small. John 

had been kind and thoughtful all the way 

through ; and now, when she had given Cla- 

risse her bonnet and wrap, and was turning 

to go into her own room, she was surprised 

with a new evidence of his thoughtfulness. 



As soon as he had realized that the end 

was near, he had sent for his mother to 

come, and fearing lest Babette should be dis- 

turbed with preparations for her entertain- 

ment, he had said nothing of it to her. 



Mrs. McDonald, with whom she had spent 

several happy summers, was her dearest 

friend. If she had been told to ask for the 

one thing in the world that would comfort 

her in her great sorrow, it would have been 

to have this friend come to her now. 



And here she was. She had come while 

they were away. With hands affectionately 

extended, but with her sweet and womanly 

face as serene as always, in dark days as in 

bright, she came forward to meet her; and 

when John came in, a moment afterwards, 







149 







and found them quietly talking together, he 

knew that her coming had been a blessing. 



Babette had been through a long and 

weary experience, and for a week after Mrs. 

McDonald came she kept her bed. This long 

rest and quiet, with kind and cheerful atten- 

tion from the entire household, was her best 

restorative. Noute, always anxious when 

any one was ill, was all attention now. The 

poor fellow, with only his poor half-wit to 

help him to an understanding of things, had 

nevertheless made some progress. He had 

learned that he was not to be sent away, and 

that when Mamzelle Bebee had gone away in 

the summer-time, she had come back again. 

He would even go himself on an errand 

into the street. Indeed, in the depth of his 

trousers pocket Noute had, for some years, 

carried the front-gate key. The day the old 

doctor gave it to him was probably the 

proudest in his whole life. The first use he 

made of it was to go out, lock the gate after 

himself, take a walk up and down the square, 

or rather a run, ending with several somer- 

saults, and then to unlock the gate again and 

come in, grinning with delight. This per- 

formance he repeated daily, until the free- 

dom of the gate had become a familiar hon- 







i5o 







or, and he could accept it calmly, standing 

with the key in his hand in the open gate. 

After a time, however, even this had lost its 

novelty. Life and its interests were inside 

the enclosure, and the key lay quietly in his 

pocket, to be used when necessary. 



Noute was never anxious about the fut- 

ure. He did not ask himself, as did every 

other member of the household, what Babette 

would do, now that she was alone. He only 

knew each day that " to-day " she was lying 

in bed — not strong enough to be up — and so 

" to-day" for him was spoiled. He could 

bring flowers to her door and ice-water, or 

the morning paper, or he could beg Clarisse 

to fix a glass of orange-flower syrup for him 

to take to her, and between times he could sit 

outside her door on the floor and think — and 

blink — and wait. 



While there had been other illnesses in the 

family, Noute had been ever willing and anx- 

ious to serve ; but when not needed in the 

house he would seize his trowel and go out 

to fight the cocoa-grass in the garden. 



During Babette's illness the cocoa-grass 

had things its own way, and straightway 

proceeded to fence off every brick from its 

neighbor. 







151 







For a whole week Noute sat at Babette's 

door, and on the day she finally appeared, 

dressed and apparently well again, he went 

through his usual gymnastic performances 

up and down the back yard, and then, seizing 

his trowel, quietly went back to his work at 

the cocoa-grass. 



Life had begun again. At the end of a 

second week it was necessary for Mrs. Mc- 

Donald to return to her home, and, by the phy- 

sician's advice, Babette consented to go with 

her for a short time. The entire change of air 

and scene would bring back the roses to her 

cheeks, and when she should be quite strong 

again she would think of her future. For the 

present John remained in the home, retain- 

ing his office in the doctor's study as before. 

It was not many days before the hunch- 

back's words regarding the property proved 

to be true. Indeed, his name was found 

signed as one of the witnesses to the brief 

will which John found among some papers 

committed to his keeping, to be opened only 

after Madame Bondurante's death. This 

paper, drawn up by herself, simply and un- 

equivocally left everything to her ''beloved 

niece, Marie Bondurante." This John wrote 

her as soon as he discovered it ; but Babette 







152 



was troubled by thoughts that no one 

knew. 



The only respect in which her beloved 

Tantine had ever seemed unkind to her or 

inconsiderate was in a certain reticence as to 

her relationship. Babette was quite small 

when she discovered that any questions 

about her own parentage brought a sad ex- 

pression to her aunt's face, and that these 

questions were answered only when pressed. 

And sometimes — she had tried to think her- 

self mistaken — sometimes the reluctant an- 

swers, given at long intervals, did not quite 

agree. Indeed, the poor old lady had more 

than once repeated them in the confessional 

— but even here only as abstract sins. 



Long before the doctor's death Babette 

had often resolved to make a serious appeal 

for the whole truth, but the very suspicion 

of mystery had made it hard to do. Then, 

when the old lady began to fail in health, it 

had been quite impossible to distress her. 



And so she had died, and Babette was 

quite alone, knowing only that there was 

concerning herself a painful mystery. She 

hoped that possibly the will would explain 

things. Her name betrayed nothing. The 

doctor and his wife were, she knew, distant 







153 



cousins. Both were Bondurantes. Had her 

father or mother— or both— offended and 

been cast out of the family record ? It was 

very strange. She was sure, moreover, that 

there was a period of her life with which 

both her aunt and uncle were unfamiliar. 

She was greatly troubled now, her last hope 

having failed. The will had told nothing. 

She was coming into a fortune through a 

doubtful relationship, and the subject preyed 

upon her mind until she resolved to write to 

John about it. 



To no human soul had she ever hinted 

her unhappiness before. Her pride had kept 

her silent even when she was a child, but 

now she felt that she must have advice, and 

perhaps aid, in unravelling her life's secret. 

Her first impulse naturally led her to con- 

fide in him who had been beside her, first as 

teacher, and then as counsellor and friend, 

during nine long and happy years. 



And so the letter was written — a long and 

detailed account of her life, so far as she 

knew it, with all the little discrepancies in 

the story as told her, all her misgivings, and 

her own detached and imperfect memories 

upon which many of them were founded. 

She even told him about the mysterious 







154 







bundle of clothing. She held back noth- 

ing. 



By a strange coincidence, on the evening 

of the day before this letter reached John 

McDonald, something happened at the home- 

stead to confirm his own suspicion that there 

was another story of Babette's life back of 

the one commonly believed. He, too, had 

innocently asked one or two natural ques- 

tions when he first came to live at the Bon- 

durantes', and then he had learned to keep 

silent. 



While he sat reading as usual in his office 

this evening, Noute squatted in his favorite 

position flat upon the floor against the wall, 

hugging his knees and talking to himself. 

This had been his habit ever since he had 

learned the use of his tongue, and John 

would not have noticed it had he not heard 

the name, " Mamzelle Bebee," repeated at in- 

tervals. It was impossible that John should 

not listen alertly, hearing this name. No 

one, not even the girl herself, knew any oth- 

er than the name to which she had awak- 

ened in the Bondurante home. She was to 

herself only, as to others, " Marie Bondu- 

rante," familiarly known as Bebe'e. 



Noute's talk, even when not embarrassed 







155 







by the consciousness of a listener, was ram- 

bling, and his sentences disconnected. Noute 

the foolish of old was Noute the foolish 

still. It was hard to make anything of talk 

like this : 



"Rain come down — wind blow, Z-z-z! 

Gate fly open — bang ! Old devil shoot in- 

side with Mamzelle Bebee !" 



This seemed to give him special pleasure, 

for he repeated it over and over with slight 

variations, always laughing with delight at 

the end of the recital. 



After listening awhile, John raised his 

head and began to question him. Nothing 

could have pleased the simple-minded fellow 

better than this. He began the story over 

again; and this time he commenced bysaying: 



"Mamzelle is so big" — he raised his hand 

even with the door-knob. " She is burning 

sick. The old devil run with her in the rain 

— in the wind. It is cold. I run behind — 

watch where she go — the big gate comes 

open — I shove her in, so — bang!" 



Rising now and throwing himself forward, 

he imitated the motion of pushing the old 

gypsy into the gate. Noute, it must be re- 

membered, was the only living person who 

had ever known how she had gotten in. It 







156 







seemed an improbable story — and it was very 

incomplete — and yet, coming just at this 

time, immediately after Babette's letter, it 

seemed to confirm his fears. There was sure- 

ly a strange mystery connected with her life. 



If Noute knew anything of value to the 

story, he did not have the knowledge on 

demand. He did not even seem to know 

when, in describing this incident, a new item 

tumbled into it, as if by accident, or that the 

whole recital had any serious meaning. 



After thinking over the matter, and fail- 

ing to get anything coherent from Noute, 

John resolved to try Clarisse. 



" What was the first name of mademoi- 

selle's father, Clarisse ?" he asked next morn- 

ing, scanning her face covertly as he did so. 



Clarisse started nervously at the question, 

rolled her eyes and crossed herself, as she 

answered : 



" Me, I don' know nuthing 't all about it, 

M'sieu Jean. God knows, Mamzelle is one 

sweet, sweet young lady ; but for such as 

dat, I know nuthing 7 all about it /" 



And the very vehemence with which she 

denied all knowledge proved beyond a 

doubt that she did know something which 

she would not tell. 







CHAPTER XII 



The more John pondered over the sub- 

ject, the more convinced he became that Ba- 

bette's life held a carefully guarded secret. 

Those who loved her best had kept it sa- 

credly. Would it be wise for her welfare or 

happiness to oppose his judgment to theirs, 

and to advise her to seek an explanation ? 

Would it not be better, seeing that in ev- 

erything else they had shown their devo- 

tion, to assume that they had acted with af- 

fectionate wisdom in this, and to accept the 

situation without question ? But, on the 

other hand, was it possible for a proud and 

sensitive girl to rest contentedly in a doubt- 

ful position, not knowing her own parentage 

even, when, by prompt effort, it might be 

possible to discover the truth ? 



His position as adviser was a hard one. 

It would have been difficult even if he had 

had only a casual interest in Babette ; but her 

happiness meant much to him, and he feared 

the effect of some possible, painful discov- 







153 







ery about herself. This was why his answer 

to her letter advised her — very much against 

his own inclination, for he longed to know 

the truth — to trust her happiness to those 

who had loved her rather than risk it by op- 

posing them. He dared not advise other- 

wise, and yet in his heart he almost hoped 

she would take the other course. There 

was information within reach. Clarisse could 

give it if she would. Perhaps she could 

explain Noute's incoherent and mysterious 

recitals, which undoubtedly hinted a true 

story. 



Babette received John's letter just as she 

and Mrs. McDonald were preparing to re- 

turn to the city. And so it was not an- 

swered ; and John did not know, until he 

saw her again, that his advice had only giv- 

en her pain. 



" I am not seeking for happiness," she 

said, sadly, as she stood beside him in the 

old office ; " I want simply to know the 

truth. For the first time in my life I must 

act for myself, and I must begin with an 

honest understanding of my position — if I 

can." 



Finding her mind fully decided, John then 

told her all he knew. But she had already 







159 



resolved to try to find out some clew to 

things from Noute. That he was associated 

in some way with the unknown period of 

her life she felt sure. She even seemed to 

remember him upon a sea-shore with strange 

people. He had brought her shells and peb- 

bles, confirming this impression. And then 

there was the mysterious bundle of clothing. 

Perhaps if he should see this again, it would 

help him to recall the past. 



Babette had not told Mrs. McDonald of 

her secret. It was too sacred, too terrible 

a thing to confide to any one beside the one 

friend who had shared all her joys and sor- 

rows since her childhood — all, excepting 

this, which had, until now, been only a sleep- 

ing, half -confessed sorrow. As soon as it 

had taken shape as a definite trouble, she 

had told him all about it, and he had prom- 

ised to help her. 



It was some time before an opportunity 

came to speak with Noute without fear of 

interruption. She wanted John to be pres- 

ent, so that he could carefully note every 

word and help her to draw conclusions ; or, 

perhaps, he would put a timely question to 

the simple-minded fellow that would draw 

out some new revelation. 







It was Mrs. McDonald's habit to take a 

nap in the afternoons, but this was the time 

Clarisse usually pottered about the house, 

setting things to rights by a touch here and 

there, and seeming to be everywhere at once. 



It took a little manoeuvring on Babette's 

part to engage the old woman in the back 

part of the house, pressing over some dresses 

which she would probably never wear, while 

she called Noute into the office where John 

was already waiting, and prepared, with beat- 

ing heart, for the cross-examination whose 

result no one could foretell. 



"Come, Noute, and tell me where you got 

this," she said, by way of introduction, as she 

laid the little bundle of clothing upon the 

table. 



Noute sprang to his feet with delight 

at sight of the familiar parcel, and seizing 

it, threw it upon the bookcase. Then he 

slipped out of the door, and returned in a 

moment, creeping on all- fours and looking 

anxiously about him as if fearing detection. 

Then, stealthily climbing up and stealing the 

bundle, he hid it in his bosom and retreated 

to the centre of the room, where he began 

going through the motions of shifting sail 

and guiding a boat. Finally, after a series of 







i6i 







quick movements, he ran up to Babette, laid 

the bundle at her feet, and rolled over on the 

floor, laughing. 



Noute's words came slowly, and when his 

mind moved with rapidity he seemed to find 

more fluent expression in his old habit of 

gesticulation. He had illustrated his steal- 

ing the clothing from the rafters in Nick's 

shed-room, the journey across the water, and, 

finally, his bringing it to Babette. 



It was not bad acting to illustrate a story 

already known, but how little it told of the 

one they were seeking to discover ! Even 

when Noute was induced to answer ques- 

tions his words were often misleading, and 

always inadequate. 



What, for instance, could be more unsatis- 

factory than this list of items, which were 

written upon John's memorandum when the 

conference was over ? 



" Clothes found ' in the wood.' 



" ' The devil ' put them there. 



" ' The devil ' was a woman. 



" She was ' old.' 



" She was ' ugly.' 



" She was ' not all bad — some good/ 



" She ' made Mamzelle B6b<§e some tea/ 



" She walked ? like this ' (limping). 







162 







" There were ' one, three, five, eight, nine 

little devils by the water.' 



" ' One was sleeping in Mamzelle B6beVs 

bed, and he threw her out.' 



" ' The devil carried Mamzelle in the rain.' 



" He ' pushed her in the gate.' 



" And he ' took the old devil back home 

in the boat.' " 



Such was the hopeless testimony. 



When Noute had known the gypsy woman, 

names had meant nothing to him. It is pos- 

sible that when he called her " the old devil " 

he meant no special harm. His language- 

teachers had been principally Uncle Tom 

and Clarisse, to whom all poor and miserable 

creatures were " poor devils." 



Having failed to get any satisfaction from 

Noute, Babette resolved to try Clarisse. 

She was determined that the old woman 

should tell what she knew, but how to ap- 

proach her was the question. Babette was 

really fond of her in a certain way, and had 

never had occasion to doubt her affection for 

herself. While she hesitated as to the man- 

ner of her appeal fortune favored her. 



Clarisse became suddenly ill, and thought 

herself likely to die. Then, " that her soul 

might rest in peace," she told Babette the 







163 







whole story of her life since the night when 

" an old woman, who looked like an Italian," 

had deserted her there, a little sick child, wet 

through to the skin in a terrible storm. This 

was all any one knew. 



If Clarisse repented her confession as soon 

as she was well again, it was too late for her 

to retract. Her word had been given under 

pressure of circumstances that established its 

truth beyond a doubt. 



Each word she had spoken had fallen like 

lead upon the heart of the poor lonely girl 

who had demanded the whole truth, thinking 

herself prepared to know the worst. But 

now that she had heard it, she realized that 

it was far more humiliating than anything 

she had feared. Somehow it had not oc- 

curred to her that even her name might not 

be hers — that she could be an utter alien, 

having no real claim of relationship upon 

those who had given her all — that the period 

of her life of which her " aunt " and " uncle " 

had known nothing was all of it up to the 

hour of her adoption. 



It was a bitter discovery, and yet there 

was relief in it, inasmuch as it made clear 

what seemed to her the path of duty. 



Whether her notions were strained or not 







1 64 







• — whether, stickling for the letter of truth, 

she would sacrifice what, through its spirit, 

was truly hers — there may be differences of 

opinion. But as soon as she had heard Cla- 

risse's story, she knew that she could never 

touch a penny of the money left to " Madame 

Bondurante's niece." 



John was never so proud of her as when 

she told him of her resolution. As she stood 

before him clothed in black from throat to 

toe, and unaffectedly confided to him all the 

pitiful story, he thought he had never seen a 

human face so refined and beautiful. 



She spoke with a placid composure born of 

the intensity of her feelings — told him of her 

decision and of all her modest plans for the 

future which she was resolved to meet brave- 

ly as a penniless orphan, supporting herself 

by teaching. 



John keenly felt his responsibility as her 

adviser at this critical moment. He knew 

all the circumstances, and was much troubled 

in his own mind with doubts. While he re- 

joiced in the nobility of character which 

moved her to surrender everything to a prin- 

ciple, he questioned her position somewhat. 

Madame Bondurante had given of her own, 

knowing exactly what she did. Was not 







i6 5 







B(fb<fe, in declining it, tripping on a mere 

technicality? Was she not robbing herself 

for a strained idea of right? He feared that 

she was, and was constrained to tell her so, 

even though while he spoke he felt that his 

words were vain. 



An expression of deep pain passed over 

her face as she answered him : " But I am 

not Madame Bondurante's niece. My dear, 

blessed Tantine was only my benefactress — 

not my aunt." 



She had begun bravely, but now her lip 

quivered and her eyes filled with tears as she 

said : " It is better that I should have work 

to do. It will keep me from thinking. Be- 

sides, I want to work. My poor Italian 

father and mother — " 



These were hard words for her to say, 

and her voice trembled, and she bit her lip. 

For only a moment did her emotion master 

her, however. 



" My poor parents were working-people. 

I have been proud — proud of my family — 

of my blood — hating unrefinement, and I " 

—she raised her head like a queen as she 

went on — " I am proud yet, but not of such 

as this. Even if prosperity came again — if I 

found Clarisse's story all a dream — I would 







1 66 







take my happiness humbly, I think ; but I 

am proud of something within me which tells 

me my own people were honest. Let me 

accept my true life — the life that comes to 

the child of misfortune and poverty. You 

have taught me many things — the best I 

definitely know. But for you I could not 

put my feelings now into words, or know 

why I am sure I am right. My beloved fos~ 

ter-parents gave me many beautiful stand- 

ards of thought and life, and I shall love 

and honor them till I die ; but this — this in- 

stinct of independence and pride is a trans- 

mitted gift. If my poor mother deserted 

me, she sacrificed herself to lay me in a soft- 

er bed than hers. She put me into the eager 

arms of a hungry-hearted mother and fled — 

out into the rain and storm, childless. She 

was a martyr — a saint. Why should I be 

ashamed?" 



Bright red spots had mounted her cheeks 

as she proceeded, and when at last she 

stopped, John, looking at her, felt a sob ris- 

ing in his own throat. 



Little Be'bJe— sweet, playful, pretty, ami- 

able Btbee — had never shown the brave spirit 

that was in her as she had done to-night. 

She looked so small, so young, so beautiful. 









'BUT I AM NOT MADAME BOXDURANTE'S NIECE' 







:6 7 







There was something regal in the indomi- 

table pride with which she took her lowly 

position. 



In John's eyes she seemed both the holy 

things she had called her own mother ; and 

it was with this feeling, and that no matter 

what should come to her he would love and 

protect her always, that he took her hand 

and raised it reverently to his lips. 



" My sweet, brave little sister," were the 

only words he said. He had called her " lit- 

tle sister" playfully on occasion many a time 

before, but never with the same protecting 

love, the same intensity of feeling. 



Babette did not feel that it would be best 

to assign her reasons for the position she had 

taken. 



The name, Marie Bondurante, was the 

only one she knew. It had been lovingly 

bestowed. She would keep it, and make no 

explanations to any one. Not even to her 

friend Mrs. McDonald did she tell the pitiful 

half-story of her life. It was enough that 

John knew, and that he respected if he did 

not advise the course upon which she had 

decided. 



In a short but dignified note to the Bon- 

durante lawyer she formally relinquished 







168 







all right to the estate. She gave no reason 

— asked no advice. 



The old lawyer was naturally thunder- 

struck, and hastened to see her, protesting 

most earnestly against what no doubt seemed 

to him an insane act. 



" Excuse me, mademoiselle, but it is un- 

precedented — it is insane, if you will allow 

me. And, besides, you are not of age. A 

child cannot rob herself. The laws of Louisi- 

ana, like those of la belle France, are kind to 

the orphan and widow. What would you 

do — you a young, delicate girl — a flower of 

the conservatory — what would become of 

you alone, penniless, in this cruel world ? 

Ah ! Bah ! It cannot be done !" 



"That, monsieur, is the question that 

comes afterwards. I do what seems right to 

me, and then deal as well as I can with re- 

sults. As to my age, in ten days I shall be 

eighteen. You may come again if you wish, 

but you will find me unchanged." 



The old man looked at her with a keen 

scrutiny. What manner of nineteenth-cen- 

tury maiden was this that had crossed his 

crooked old path ? 



She was surely good to look upon — as 

beautiful a maid as the brightest dream of 







his youth ever brought before his closed eyes 

in sleep, more lovely than any of the daugh- 

ters of the notably lovely women among 

whom he lived. 



He scratched his old head nervously as he 

went out. He felt somewhat as a naturalist 

does who discovers a new specimen. He did 

not know just how to label her. 



One thing was certain, however. He 

would take his time about making it known. 

She might yet come to her senses. 



He went again to see her — not once, but 

several times. He consulted her friends. 

Mrs. McDonald truly said she knew nothing 

of her reasons. John was quite sure she was 

fully persuaded in her own mind. Both 

were entirely satisfied of her sanity. 



The old lawyer's last visit of protest was 

as unsatisfactory as the first. She assured 

him quietly that she had not taken her po- 

sition thoughtlessly. She knew it meant 

poverty, homelessness, work. 



Indeed, she was quite decided just what 

work she would seek, and perhaps, since he 

was so kind, he would help her to find a 

position to teach. 



He finally saw that further argument was 

useless ; but in his musty office he pondered 







170 



much upon the beautiful girl who, from his 

point of view, seemed bent on her own de- 

struction. 



Mrs. McDonald, seeing that John did not 

oppose her, said little on the subject, though 

she used all her powers of persuasion to urge 

Babette to spend at least one year with her 

in her country home before setting out to 

earn her living. 



44 1 have no girl," she pleaded ; " come with 

me, dear, and be my daughter." 



This was a great temptation, but, having 

decided to face the new life squarely, prompt- 

ly, unflinchingly, she felt that this would be 

somewhat of a retreat. She was firm in her 

determination to teach. Indeed, her peculiar 

education fitted her exceptionally well for 

special teaching. Although her pronuncia- 

tion of English was sometimes delightfully 

Frenchy, her knowledge of its grammar and 

literature was thorough. 



The old lawyer, finally realizing that his 

eloquence was of no avail, paid her one more 

visit — this time a visit of another sort. He 

declared himself one minute " vexed, baffled, 

furious ;" the next, " ready to wash his hands 

of the whole affair;" and then, having spent 

his anger, he proceeded, with a kindliness of 







I/I 







tone that belied his words, to tell her that 

" since she was bent on suicide, he had 

brought her a rope to hang herself with." 



Such was the old Frenchman's way of 

designating the offer of a position which he 

had brought her. 



He had not yet submitted her name. He 

wished to be quite sure that she was in ear- 

nest. Yes, he understood that her mind was 

made up — only he thought best to see her 

again. He had a friend, just returned with 

his family from a long residence in France — 

charming people, no better in the land. The 

sons and daughters, grown up abroad, needed 

a teacher speaking both languages to instruct 

them in English. If mademoiselle was really 

quite sure that she wished to assume poverty 

— if she would accept a teacher's position — 

here was an opening. He had been asked 

to recommend some one. If she were his 

own daughter, he could not place her in a 

more desirable home — so far as that went. 

Mademoiselle need not decide immediately. 

She should take her own time — a week, or 

even a month. 



Needless to say Babette asked little time 

to consider a proposition like this, which 

seemed, in everyway, a providential opening. 







172 







Six weeks later, when the old Bondurante 

homestead passed into the hands of the 

agent representing madame's wealthy kin- 

dred living in Paris, Dr. John McDonald's 

sign was transferred to an office across the 

street, where Noute was regularly installed 

as " office boy ;" and Babette, parting affec- 

tionately with Mrs. McDonald, and promis- 

ing to come to her for a long visit at the end 

of the year, stepped into the carriage sent 

for her and was driven around to the hand- 

some home of Colonel Le Charmant, where, 

in her own father's house, she was to enter 

upon her life of independence as English 

teacher to her sisters and brothers who had 

grown up in France. 







CHAPTER XIII 



It was a sad little group of three who 

stood at the Bondurante gate watching the 

back of the carriage that carried the lovely 

little mistress of the manse away from them. 



Uncle Tom leaned heavily on his walking- 

cane, and only grunted his objections to the 

whole proceeding ; while Clarisse, poor old 

soul, paying no heed to the great tears that 

coursed adown her fat cheeks, kept wiping 

her hands on her apron over and over again. 

Somehow, although she had heard absolutely 

nothing, she connected Babette's going away 

to teach with her own confession, and she 

blamed herself. If any one else, under the 

circumstances, had been betrayed into giving 

this testimony, even in the presence of death, 

she would have denounced her as unworthy 

the trust. And so now she denounced her- 

self. This was why, instead of weeping tears 

of simple, unmixed sorrow over the final 

breaking up of the home, she stood remorse- 

fully watching the receding carriage with 







174 



quivering lips that tried to frame a prayer 

for many blessings to descend upon Mam- 

zelle's head in compensation for the wrong 

she had done her. This was why she was 

heedless of her tear-stained face, and stood 

nervously expressing her powerless protest 

in her old way — wiping and wiping her 

hands. 



Noute leaned against the gate-post, his 

tearless eyes blinking suspiciously, until the 

carriage was nearly out of sight, and then, 

with a wild cry, as if of pain, he sprang for- 

ward and ran after it as fast as he could go. 

He had no trouble in keeping the carriage in 

sight until it stopped at last at the Le Char- 

mant gate. 



John and his mother had driven with Ba- 

bette to her new home, and when they had 

left her there they proceeded to the depot, 

where Mrs. McDonald took the train for her 

own home. 



When Noute, standing afar off, saw the 

gate close and the carriage drive away, leav- 

ing Babette within, he turned and went slow- 

ly back home — not to his new home with 

John McDonald, but back to the Bondurante 

house, where he found Clarisse and Uncle 

Tom sitting silently, side by side, upon the 







175 







front porch, thus unconsciously advertising 

the fact that the old house was deserted. 



Once more a great gate had closed be- 

tween Noute and his beloved young mis- 

tress ; but he had gained sufficiently in in- 

telligence since the similar episode of years 

ago to know that he could not follow her 

now. 



Clarisse and Uncle Tom had been retained 

for the present in charge of the old house 

and garden, and so Noute would always be a 

welcome guest there. 



The three sat together to-day, saying very 

little, and when any one spoke it was only 

to remark upon some trivial matter, as when 

Uncle Tom said : 



" I wonder for w'at dat brick is lif itself 

dat-a-way in de walk yander. Bet a pica- 

yune one 'crevisse * try to push up one chim- 

bly 'gins' de underside dat brick — " 



" Mo' like one doze nasty taupe try to work 

his road out so," said Clarisse. 



" Mais, no, Clarisse ; dat groun' ain't 'cross 

de lake, no — nuthing but taupiniere.\ You 

don't find no mole in dis damp, wet craw- 

fish-mud. Mamzelle Taupe, she like to keep 

herself dry. W'at you tink, Noute ?" 

* Crawfish. f Mole-hills. 







1/6 







"Me! I don't tink nutt'ing," was poor 

Noute's over-true reply ; and if it held a bit 

of humor, none of the three knew it, as they 

lapsed into a silence, to be broken presently 

by a trivial remark from Uncle Tom about 

the weather. 



So, avoiding the subject that filled their 

minds — because it was too sorrowful to trust 

themselves to talk about yet— they chatted 

idly on until nearly dark, when John Mc- 

Donald's carnage stopped at the door op- 

posite. Then Noute sprang from his seat 

and ran over to report for duty. 



After Babette, Noute cared more for 

John, or for " Dr. Jean," as he called him, 

than for any one else in the world. If Mam- 

zelle B£bee had gone away to live in another 

house among strange people, Dr. Jean had 

taken her there. It must be right. 



If Noute himself had consented to leave 

Mamzelle's service and go to work for Dr. 

Jean, she had told him to do it, and of 

course it was right. 



She had gone to live in a more preten- 

tious house than the Bondurante home 

even. Noute and the doctor had taken nar- 

rower quarters. This satisfied his sense of 

the fitness of things. Just how much think- 







177 







ing he did it would be hard to say ; but cer- 

tain it is that when he followed the carriage, 

if he had seen it leave Babette at any of the 

humble-looking houses that lined its course, 

there would have been trouble. 



He knew the French quarter of the city 

in certain directions pretty well by this 

time, and he had often passed the Le Char- 

mant gate and gazed in admiringly at the 

two cast-iron lions that guarded its front 

steps. 



He had discovered one of them while the 

garden was overrun with weeds, while the 

family were still abroad. 



A single ferocious -looking head had 

seemed to glare at him from a dense bower 

of honeysuckle vines that had enveloped 

the rest of the figure, and he had started 

back in fear, thinking it a living beast. 



And then when, a day or two afterwards, 

he had come timidly to peep and see if the 

beast was still there, he had seen a little bird 

perch upon the iron mane, and he was so 

amused to find how he had been deceived 

that he threw up his hat and caught it, and 

turned somersaults halfway down the block. 



Then when the old garden had been 

trimmed and put in order for the family's 







178 



return, and another lion had seemed to step 

out on the opposite side of the steps, the 

two forming a noble guard to the stately 

portal, the place had seemed to him trans- 

formed into a palace. 



If Noute had been told to select a home 

worthy of Mamzelle, he would have gone 

straight to the palace of the two lions. If 

he could have chosen his own home out- 

side the Bondurante gate and away from 

Babette, he would have gone across the 

street only, where, from the front window 

or door, he could gaze into the old garden. 

He would have chosen to live with Dr. 

Jean. 



Any time when he should be off duty, he 

could go over and sit and talk — or refuse 

to talk — with Clarisse and Uncle Tom, who 

were his friends and knew all his moods. 

And, too, he could exercise a sort of guar- 

dianship over the old garden, protecting cer- 

tain mocking-birds' nests of which he knew, 

and the half-open magnolia buds against the 

depredations of the small boy. He could 

gather bouquets of roses and baskets of 

red and white camellias, and carry them 

around to the gate where the two lions 

were, and send them in to " Mamzelle Be- 







179 



b£e." All these things he could and did do 

during the weeks and months following; and 

indeed, sometimes, seeing the cocoa -grass, 

which he had kept in semi-subjection for so 

many years, laying siege with renewed vigor 

to its old ground, he would seize his trowel 

and open battle with it again in the old gar- 

den. 



Sometimes — and these were red-letter 

days to the "poor foolish " — Dr. Jean would 

send him to carry a note to the house of the 

two lions, and then he would have the joy 

of asking to see Mamzell'e herself, and of 

standing and blinking and grinning with de- 

light while he awaited her answer. 



Babette's life, in her chosen occupation, 

was from the first so busy that she found 

little time for repining, and yet there were 

times when the mystery of her life weighed 

very heavily upon her; and many nights, 

while the family were all asleep, a certain 

little bundle of clothing, tied with a blue 

cord and tassel, was wet with bitter tears. 



Within the dainty white garments, yel- 

lowed with time, she had laid a shabby little 

dress of shrunken flannel and a pair of wool- 

len stockings, faded and old. These things 

she had found hidden away in Madame Bon- 







i8o 







durante's armoire* and Clarisse had told her 

that they were the garments she had worn 

when she was deserted by the old woman in 

the storm. Spreading them out upon her 

lap — the shabby clothes on one side, the 

dainty ones apart — she would study them 

over, wishing for power to read the mysteri- 

ous story in which they both played so evi- 

dent a part. 



The Le Charmants were all more than 

kind, and the young sons and daughters 

soon became devotedly attached to their 

beautiful young governess. 



Babette, although she grew fond of them 

all, was especially drawn towards the old 

grandmother. She reminded her of her be- 

loved Tantine ; but perhaps a deeper feeling 

lay in the fact that the heart -hungry girl 

unconsciously responded to the tenderness 

of the old lady for her. 



Ever since the loss of her own granddaugh- 

ter and godchild, the dear little Babette, the 

grandmother had regarded all girls of about 

her age with an affectionate interest. 



She had wondered, as did all the family, 

what eccentric whim had influenced Miss 

Bondurante to decline her uncle's fortune ; 



* Wardrobe. 







[Si 







but as Babette never spoke of her own af- 

fairs, a sense of delicacy forbade their ever 

referring to them. Of course, they could 

ask no questions. 



The pleasant relations between her and 

the Le Charmant daughters had soon ripened 

into personal friendships, which grew and 

strengthened with the months. 



Dr. McDonald was now a handsome and 

popular young physician, growing in practice 

and popularity. It was but natural that he 

should have been much sought by society; 

but, though he was too busy and serious a 

man now to find time for such a life, or 

pleasure in it, he was a frequent and al- 

ways welcome visitor at the Le Charmant 

home. 



If the beautiful and sweet little governess 

had needed anything to add to her prestige, 

she would have found it in the devoted 

friendship of the popular and successful Dr. 

McDonald. 



Babette had been for more than six 

months in her new home, and any one 

looking in upon her life there would surely 

have pronounced her perfectly happy. 



Often in the late afternoons or evenings 

she could be seen, dressed in white muslin, 







182 







with a black ribbon about her waist, walking 

through the garden with one of the girls on 

either side of her, their arms about her waist ; 

and the old grandmother, looking at them 

from her arm-chair on the porch, would 

think, " She reminds me of our own little 

one. If she is living, maybe she is just as 

tall now as Mademoiselle ; and how sweetly 

she would fit in — just so — between the two, 

Arthe and Felicie ! — Felicie born in France." 



How long this half-happy state of affairs 

would have continued it would be hard to 

surmise had nothing unusual happened. But 

something very unexpected and terrible did 

suddenly occur. The little governess was 

taken violently ill. The old grandmother, 

already tenderly fond of the beautiful, lonely 

girl, was all devotion now. 



11 Maybe our own Be'be'e is sick somewhere 

among strangers," she said in her own heart 

as she sat beside her bed tenderly minister- 

ing to her wants. 



Indeed, never since the child Babette had 

been lost had it been possible for her to do 

a kindness to any girl but she had done it 

in the lost child's name. Even when she 

had met poor little beggar-girls on her way 

to church in Paris, she had dropped a coin 









HOW SWEETLY SHE WOULD FIT IN-JUST SO -BETWEEN THE 

TWO, ARTHE AND FELICIE!'" 







• ; I 







183 



into their hands, thinking, " Maybe my poor 

little girl is begging somewhere." 



For several long weeks Babette lay ill with 

brain-fever. She had never been very robust, 

and the tension of the mental strain through 

which she had passed had been very great. 

If anything recent had happened to bring 

on such an attack, no one knew it. 



Some days she would lie in a stupor, seem- 

ing to recognize no one, while at other times 

she would start nervously, calling "Maman f" 

" Tantine /" or " Nenaine /" 



One day while she lay apparently insensi- 

ble, the grandmother, trying to rouse her to 

take some medicine, called " Mademoiselle 

Bondurante,"as she had always done, when 

the sick girl, starting up and looking wildly 

about her, cried : 



" No— not that ! That is not my name ! 

It is only borrowed ! No— it is mine— it was 

a present— a pretty, pretty present. They 

gave me riches, too, but the riches didn't be- 

long. Would you take what didn't belong? 

I have no name. Yes, I have two names. 

One day it is ' Blue Tassels,' and the next 

day it is only * Woollen Stockings.' To-day 

it is ' Riches,' and to-morrow it is * Poverty.' 

Which do you think belongs— < Blue Tas- 







1 84 







sels' or' Woollen Stockings'? Tell me quick, 

before I forget." 



The family gathered about her bed, fright- 

ened lest she might be dying, and sent away 

in haste for the family doctor, while a sec- 

ond messenger ran to tell Dr. McDonald. 



The mother, Madame Le Charmant, leaned 

over her, bathing her head and trying to 

soothe her. 



" Tell me, madame," she continued. " Tell 

me why I had no mother. But I had a god- 

mother. It is my christening dress. Where 

is my godmother? She was a lady — I know 

by the little stitches — and the blue — " 



They all wept silently, standing about the 

bedside, and the mother's tears fell upon the 

bosom of the sick girl's night-gown as she 

tenderly kissed her. 



When the doctor came, he gave her a 

soothing potion. 



"This is better than the stupor," he said. 

" It may be that the crisis is past. Let her 

be kept perfectly quiet." 



As she gradually succumbed to the influ- 

ence of the medicine, she continued to ex- 

claim, in broken sentences: 



" Miss Marie Blue Tassels — a pretty name !" 

Then, sobbing, the next minute she would 







i85 







say: "Only a little beggar — but I am not 

ashamed. That is my crest — a pair of wool- 

len stockings — ha, ha, ha !" 



So she continued, at lengthening intervals, 

for nearly a half-hour, when she seemed near- 

ly asleep; then, rousing suddenly, she clasped 

her forehead as if in pain. 



The grandmother, seeing her growing drow- 

siness, had sent every one else out of the 

room. Turning now, she opened the ar- 

moire door and took from its shelf a bottle of 

cologne-water. She had done so before many 

times during the girl's illness, and yet, strange 

to say, she had never until now noticed on an 

under shelf a white bundle lying, tied about 

the outside with a blue cord and tassel, and 

beside it a pair of little woollen stockings. 

She started involuntarily at the sight, and as 

she made her way back to the bedside with 

the cologne, her old heart was thumping 

fiercely. She hardly knew what she thought, 

or hoped, or feared. As the old lady ten- 

derly bathed Babette's temples with the co- 

logne water she soon began to breathe regu- 

larly. 



" I have a godmother, I know by the blue 

tassels. Kiss me, Nenaine," she murmured 

softly, as she at last dropped into sleep ; and 







1 86 







neither knew that it was even her own god- 

mother, the " Nenaine " of her infancy, who 

gave the kiss she asked, her heart fairly 

trembling within her as she did so. 



It seemed absurd for her to be so wrought 

up with a nameless hope. Was not the little 

governess a niece of Dr. Bondurante — old 

Dr. Bondurante whom everybody knew? 



And yet, when she had noiselessly restored 

the bottle to its place, and, reaching down, 

took the mysterious little parcels in her 

hands, she trembled so that she could scarce- 

ly stand. She looked first at the shabby lit- 

tle checked flannel dress and faded woollen 

stockings ; then she unrolled the other bun- 

dle, saw the little time -stained dress, felt 

the blue tassels, and then — A single quick 

scream escaped her as she clutched the ar- 

moire door for support. 



Fearing that she might have disturbed the 

sick girl, she turned quickly and looked tow- 

ards the bed. She was in a profound, peace- 

ful sleep. The doctor's medicine had done 

its work. 



But the family in the next room had heard 

and hurried to the door. Seeing their alarmed 

faces, the old lady threw up her arm in a si- 

lent, dramatic appeal for quiet, and, still con- 







I8 7 







vulsively clasping the bundle of clothing, 

staggered out of the room. 



The scene that followed baffles description. 

The little, long -lost garments finished the 

half-told story of the delirious girl. Even if 

the old lady had not recognized every twist 

and stitch of the old cord and tassels, the 

work of her own hands, the folded papers 

within the tassels would have supplied, by 

their well-preserved testimony, all needed 

proof of their identity. 



In a few moments both mother and father 

were kneeling and sobbing silently at the 

bedside of poor little Babette, who slept on 

unconscious of the joyous answer that had 

been found to the hard question that had so 

disturbed her head. The younger ones, her 

sisters and brothers, unable to control them- 

selves, ran to a distant room on the opposite 

side of the house, and wept aloud. Thither, 

too, ran the servants, adding their tears and 

cries of joy to the general thanksgiving. If 

dear old Tante Angele could only have been 

there, too ! 



John soon arrived and the little French 

priest, both of whom had been sent for, and 

together they all wept tears of happiness, 

of praise, and of hope that the dear one 







i88 







restored would soon awake to conscious- 

ness. 



A blessed waking, indeed, awaited the 

lonely girl — to father, mother, sisters, and 

home ; to the conscious possession of the 

dear grandmother, the " Nenaine " for whom 

she had called in her delirium ; to a name 

of her own, recovered in her father's house. 



When, after a long and deep sleep, she 

finally opened her eyes, and looked feebly 

from one face to another, it was hard for the 

loving ones in attendance to guard their 

eyes, as well as their lips, lest they should 

tell the forbidden story. The doctor ordered 

the most perfect quiet, forbidding so much 

as a word, beyond the needs of the sick- 

room, for many days to come. 



"Yes," he said, " you must continue even 

to call her Miss Bondurante. She has passed 

through a terrible mental strain. I could 

not answer for the result of any shock in her 

enfeebled condition. She has come back 

to us. We must not let her slip from our 

arms again," he added, tenderly pressing the 

grandmother's hand as he left the room. 



And so for two long weeks more they 

hovered lovingly about her bed, keeping the 

sweet secret with their lips, but telling it a 







189 







hundred times a day by yearning tender- 

nesses; and many times the pillow beside 

her head was wet with tears while she 

slept. 



Often as her sisters' faces lay against hers, 

the mother and grandmother, overcome with 

emotion as they looked at them, would have 

to leave the room. " See how her sweet 

face matches the others !" they would say. 

" Why were we so blind as not to see it be- 

fore?" 



And the old grandmother, going into her 

own room, would fall upon her knees at her 

little prie-dieu, and sob her old heart out in 

praise and thanksgiving. 



Meanwhile the news had gone abroad over 

all the city. The one place in which it had 

not been told was the sweet flower-perfumed 

chamber where the chief actor in the little 

drama lay. 



Finally, the time came when the doctor 

consented that she should know the truth. 

It was a trying ordeal, after all — to tell 

her gently, quietly, without great emotion. 

Each member of the family in turn was sug- 

gested as the one most capable of self-con- 

trol, and each fell to sobbing at the bare 

thought. If they could have rushed to her, 







I go 



open-armed and screaming with joy, it would 

have been easy enough. 



At last the grandmother consented to bear 

the good news. Father and mother would 

sit beside the bed, but the irrepressible sis- 

ters and brothers should not be allowed to 

come in until they were called. 



The father, creole-like, had brought a box 

of handsome jewels, marked in her full name, 

" Marie Babette Le Charmant ;" and he en- 

tered the room and took his seat with the 

case in his hand. It would prepare her for 

a surprise. 



Babette, dressed in a beautiful pink me- 

rino wrapper, and with a bunch of blush- 

roses pinned at her throat, sat propped up 

in lace -covered pillows. Her mother sat 

upon the bed beside her, the grandmother 

taking a low rocking-chair on the other side. 

The father drew his chair close beside the 

grandmother. 



The old lady's face twitched pitifully as, 

taking Babette's thin hand in one of hers 

and laying the other fat palm on top of it, 

she said, " Chtrie, we have some good news 

for you — good news for us all." 



The mother's face was in the pillow in a 

moment, and the father's head fell upon his 







igi 







trembling hand. Before the grandmother 

had been able to steady her voice again 

Babette had kissed her mother's forehead, 

and extended her arms to father and grand- 

mother. 



"I know it already — for a long time I 

have known — maman, papa, Nenaine," she 

said, laying her arms over the two bowed 

heads before her and hiding her face in her 

grandmother's bosom. "The night before I 

was taken ill it must have been," she said, 

presently ; " for it is the last thing I remem- 

ber, Arthe told me about — about her little 

sister and the white dress and blue tassels, 

and my heart beat so I could hardly listen. 

I knew it then, but I could not speak ; and 

when I waked up everything was strange. 

I think I had fever. Then one day, not 

very long ago — about two weeks, I think — I 

waked again, and every one was to me as 

my own. And it seemed to me you knew, 

and then I rested and slept. I think I was 

weak. I was afraid to speak, lest it would 

all disappear ; and while I kept still, you 

were always here. I was not quite sure 

whether it was true — or a dream. Only 

since yesterday I wanted to speak, knowing 

it would not vanish. And I saw in your 







192 



faces that you knew. How did you find it 

out, Nenaine, maman, papa? Was it the 

little dress?" 



And then, helped to self-possession by the 

girl's calmness, they wiped their eyes and 

told all the story, and about the name in the 

blue tassels. Still, the whole mystery was 

not solved. 



As soon as Babettewas strong enough to 

undergo the ordeal, they sent for Clarisse 

and for Noute. And, of course, John was 

there and the little French priest. 



The old woman only confirmed her pre- 

vious story, the one Babette already knew. 

Indeed, it was all she could tell. 



Noute did his very best, but, as before, 

whenever he appeared to be on the very 

edge of a revelation, his mind seemed to fail 

him utterly. 



" Perhaps you could take us to the place 

where you lived on the beach," John sug- 

gested finally, as a last resort. 



At this Noute jumped up and clapped his 

hands. " Yes," he could go there " in a 

boat /" And then, although it was very bad 

manners, he turned a double somersault in 

the presence of the entire company. 







CHAPTER XIV 



Noute's evident faith in himself inspired 

his hearers with confidence, even though his 

enthusiasm was so grotesquely and charac- 

teristically expressed ; and it was soon de- 

cided that the voyage of investigation should 

be attempted, at least. 



It was thought best that Babette should 

go, too — in which case, of course, there would 

be a family party — as a return to the familiar 

scenes might revive her own recollections of 

her life there, and perhaps help to unravel 

her tangled story. 



Of course Colonel Le Charmant would get 

a good boat, and there would be experienced 

sailors aboard who should obey Noute's in- 

structions as to their course. 



A novel journey it was to be, indeed, with 

Noute the foolish for bona fide captain, hav- 

ing officers and crew under him. Although 

its object was serious enough, there were 

others besides the blinking commander to 

whom it seemed little less than a pleasure 

excursion, even in anticipation. 

13 







i 9 4 



The trip was necessarily deferred for sev- 

eral weeks until Babette should be quite well 

and strong, and in this interval there was 

probably never, in all the history of the old 

French city, a more popular convalescent 

than she. 



The romantic, half-told story of the little 

Creole girl, who had apparently dropped out 

of existence nearly sixteen years before, to 

return, an accomplished and beautiful young 

woman, to her own father's house, was told 

a hundred times a day on every street corner, 

and the fact that her restoration to her own 

people had come directly through her vol- 

untarily sacrificing everything for a principle 

made her a heroine indeed. 



Telegrams of congratulation had come in 

to the family daily from all over the land, 

even cabled messages from over the seas, ever 

since the day the news had gone abroad ; and 

Babette's own room had for weeks been a 

bower of roses. From all directions the floral 

offerings came : great pyramids of roses from 

the gardens of the Ursuline nuns below the 

city, and from the convent of the sweet sis- 

ters in Greenville; flowers and congratula- 

tions from the Governor of the State and 

from the French Consul, and from strangers. 







195 



Of course there were always roses from 

Noute — little, short-stemmed damask-roses, 

choked up to their necks with a white string ; 

or sometimes great branches, with a hun- 

dred Liliputian blossoms upon them, from 

the picayune rose-bushes in the old garden. 

Yet there were none more welcome. 



Finally, the day of the journey arrived, and 

the party set sail for the unknown shore, 

where had lived the unknown woman who 

had played an unknown part in this myste- 

rious chapter of Babette's life. Here Babette 

had lived — and Noute. From here she had 

come in an old woman's arms. This was all 

they knew. 



All the Le Charmant family went — even 

the old grandmother, who had refused to en- 

ter any of these sailing craft for twenty years. 

She would see with her own eyes the roof 

that had sheltered the dear child ; and if any 

harm should come to the little boat and its 

crew she would rather be with them than 

not. 



Of course John was of the party, and the 

little priest, and one or two of the servants 

who had begged to go. 



And of course, though Babette did not 

know it, there were among the crew two com- 







196 







missioned police-officers, with authority to 

arrest if the suspected persons should be 

found. 



At the beginning of the journey all eyes 

were turned inquiringly upon " Captain 

Noute," as he was playfully called ; but it 

was only a short time before he proved him- 

self capable of the undertaking. He had not 

forgotten the way. 



They had started in the gray of the early 

morning, and the sun was still above the 

horizon when the little boat took a landward 

course, and soon ran alongside a row of old 

decayed stumps — the remains of Nick's di- 

lapidated wharf. As soon as the hut came 

into sight Noute was so delighted with his 

achievement that if there had been room 

upon the narrow deck he would certainly have 

performed a few of his lofty tumbles, and so 

the dignity of the captain was saved simply 

for lack of floor space. But he did a gener- 

ous amount of grinning and blinking, and 

when at last the little boat was tied at the 

end of the rickety pier he could contain 

himself no longer, but, with a whoop, threw 

his hat high into the air. In its descent it 

fell upon the tip of the main-mast, where it 

remained for several minutes before a gust 







197 



of wind brought it down and carried it 

ashore. 



Noute and his absurd antics had so en- 

gaged the attention of the company that 

they had as yet hardly noticed the aspect of 

the beach, and it was not until the men of 

the party had followed Noute along the 

wharf and were turning towards a clump of 

trees that they discovered the little cabin, 

almost hidden now by the dense growth of 

overhanging foliage. 



Colonel Le Charmant advised the ladies 

to stay in the boat until they should "go 

ashore and investigate matters.' 1 



As the party neared the shanty they saw 

that a crowd was assembled in the little front 

room. Nick's wife stood at the door wiping 

her eyes upon her apron, and when Noute 

approached her and began to talk she cov- 

ered her face in terror. 



What Noute said was simply, " Comment 

ca va ! W'ere's de ole woman ?" Not a 

very gracious greeting this, but it was not 

addressed to a critical audience. 



The woman kept her face in her apron, 

weeping afresh, and made no answer. But 

Nick, who stood beside her within the door, 

had heard the inquiry. He sullenly pointed 







198 



to a bed in the remote corner of the room. 

Here lay all that was left of the old gypsy. 

And she was dying. 



Noute entered the room, followed by Col- 

onel Le Charmant, the priest, and John. 



As the old woman's eyes fell upon the 

well -remembered companion of her seafar- 

ings, and then upon him whom she recog- 

nized as the father of the stolen child, she 

threw up her bony hands in a gesture of 

terror and despair. 



" Go quickly and bring Babette," said 

Colonel Le Charmant, turning to John Mc- 

Donald. 



Not a word was spoken as the visitors 

stood with uncovered heads by the bedside 

of death awaiting Babette's coming — not 

a word by the awe -stricken crowd at the 

door or the police-officers waiting with- 

out. 



The dying woman was the only one who 

recognized Colonel Le Charmant ; but Nick 

and his wife knew Noute, and his sudden ap- 

pearance with an important-looking company 

seemed a menace. They were frightened. 

Only the old woman's fitful breathing, and 

an occasional muffled sob from her terrified, 

sorrow-stricken daughter, mingled with the 







199 



sighing of the pines and the lapping of the 

waves against the beach. 



A broad shaft of the low evening sun 

came in through the open door, and, as 

Colonel Le Charmant turned presently and, 

meeting Babette, took her hand and led her 

to the old woman's bedside, this illuminating 

beam fell for a moment upon Babette's face. 

Whether it was this sudden lighting up of 

her features, or only seeing her beside her 

father, which told the story, we cannot 

know. But the gypsy understood. Rais- 

ing her thin arms again, and turning her 

eyes towards heaven, she cried, in a thin, 

tremulous voice, " Thank God I" For some 

moments she was too much overcome to 

speak again ; but presently, in a voice bro- 

ken often by coughing, she confessed her 

awful crime. 



" All these," she said, pointing to the tall, 

slatternly crowd of boys and girls standing 

about the door — "all these; they were little 

and hungry. I was old ; it was for the re- 

ward — the money ; but I was afraid. God 

forgive me !" 



So much effort brought on a spell of ex- 

haustion, and it seemed as if she might be 

dying. 







"Say you forgive her, father," Babette 

plead, as, leaving his side, she went close 

to the bed and laid her hand gently upon 

the old woman's forehead. 



The father could not resist this appeal. 

Stepping beside his daughter, and putting 

his arm around her, he said, in a voice in 

which there was no vestige of resentment, 

but only tender, human sympathy, " We for- 

give you. May God have mercy upon your 



II M 



As she heard these words she clasped her 

hands and muttered some inarticulate words, 

but their sound was more of praise than of 

prayer. Perhaps even from the slough of 

sin and degradation into which she had fall- 

en she had been praying for this sight — the 

stolen child restored to her father's arms — 

and even this extreme moment was to her 

an hour of rejoicing. 



Colonel Le Charmant had turned away, 

and beckoned to the priest to come for- 

ward. At sight of him the old woman 

smiled and tried to speak. It was enough. 

The priest took his missal from his pocket, 

and, while every one fell upon his knees, 

began to read the prayers for the dying and 

the " absolution." He had heard the poor 







201 







sinner's publicly made confession, and there 

was no time to stickle for form. 



It was a half-hour later, perhaps, when, the 

religious services over, the visitors passed out 

of the little shanty. Stopping at the door 

for a moment's whispered conversation with 

her father, Babette returned to the old 

woman's bedside, and, slipping a roll of bills 

into her hands, turned and came away. A 

moment afterwards Nick's wife gently re- 

moved the money from the relaxed fingers, 

and dropped it into her pocket before Nick 

should see it. The old gypsy never knew 

that it was there. 



" Well," said Colonel Le Charmant, as, 

walking beside the two police-officers, he 

followed the others back to the boat, " the 

Supreme Judge has taken this case out of 

your hands." 



The spirit of the party as they set sail for 

home was very different from that of the 

morning. All day long gay songs and 

laughter had floated up into the wind that 

filled the white sail ; but now, although the 

little boat skimmed gayly along in the even- 

ing breeze, no sound of merriment mingled 

with the ripple that followed her keel. 



Colonel Le Charmant had instructed one 







202 







of the hired sailors aboard to assume com- 

mand on the home journey; but before any- 

one had realized it " Captain Noute " had 

donned the honors again, and he looked so 

happy as he stepped on deck and began un- 

furling the sail that it would have seemed 

cruel to depose him. And so he had his 

way. 



As they steered out towards the channel 

Babette kept her eyes upon the shore. It 

seemed to have a sort of fascination for her 

— as a country visited in a dream. 



All the people in the cabin had looked 

strange to her — even the old woman. The 

children of her memory were little girls 

and boys, their mother a pretty-faced wom- 

an holding a baby. She had never been 

able to recall a picture of her life on the 

shore here without this figure of a pretty 

woman sitting at the cabin door with a baby 

in her arms. 



Everything was changed now. The pretty 

mother of the babes of eleven, twelve, and 

thirteen years ago was the gaunt middle- 

aged woman who stood sobbing within the 

door. The youngest of the long-ago babes 

was a strapping barefooted boy as tall as 

his father. Even the face of the beach 







203 







seemed changed and the expression of the 

cabin's front. 



Volunteer clumps of tall, tufted pine sap- 

lings dotted the coast, breaking its old ex- 

panse, and the hovel had sent out patched 

additions to its architecture — " improve- 

ments " only in the sense of affording more 

sleeping space within. 



The sounds and odors of the sea-shore 

alone were true to the past. Its waters 

lapped against the beach, and the winds 

moaned as of yore. Its breath was still red- 

olent of the mingled odors of wet sands 

and drying pine-straw; its oyster-beds, half 

exposed now at low-tide ; damp, oozing bar- 

nacles on the old wharf-stumps ; the wind- 

shaken fish-nets. 



Babette had never had any clear recollec- 

tion of her life here ; but when she had 

stepped upon the sands to-day with this 

identical breath of twelve years ago blowing 

into her face, stirring her hair, she was for a 

moment almost overcome with the vividness 

of the memory-pictures that came crowding 

before her eyes. And so she noted the 

changes. The visit had been more painful 

to the refined, sensitive girl than any one 

knew. 







204 







This was why, while the others talked of 

the pitiful story as the boat moved away, 

she sat silent, and gazed with tear-filling 

eyes at the little cabin door, lifted now into 

sight even in its shadowed place by a last 

lingering shaft of sunlight. This was why 

she was first to see, and to call to the others 

to look, where presently every one was seen 

to come out of the lighted cabin door — cry- 

ing. 



So it was that they knew that the old 

gypsy was dead. 



The story is told. And yet this was some 

years ago. All the principal actors in the 

little history are still living, and living peo- 

ple's stories grow from day to day, whether 

they are written down or not. 



Everybody who was in New Orleans in 

the winter of 1885 will remember the sensa- 

tion produced in society by the debut of 

Miss Babette Le Charmant. Stories of her 

beauty and accomplishments were on every 

tongue, and her romantic history was only 

an added attraction. Most marvellous tales 

were told even wherever a half-dozen com- 

mon people talked together. As when one 

said, standing in the French market : 







205 



"An' w'at you t'ink? Dey say all dat 

money w'at her fodder is pay her for teach 

her little sisters an' brudders — dey say she 

is give every las' picayune to doze low-down 

dagoes 'cross de lake, to bury dat old devil 

w'at stole her. W'at you t'ink about dat, 

eh?" 



"Oh, well — me, I t'ink she must be one 

good Christian, yas. If it was me, I would 

let 'em pitch de old woman in de lake." 



"An' me, too, I would. Anyhow, she 

prove she was one good Christian de way 

she rz/fuse to take dat Bondurante money. 

Me, I say, when somebody got a chance to 

grab some money and dey rif 'fuse it — so, just 

for principle, what nobody dont know nutting 

about — well, dat's w'at I call rz'/ligion !" 



" An' me, too. Dat's true. Well, she got 

her reward in dis life. I b'lieve doze peop' 

w'at try for reward for everyt'ing in dis 

worl', dey don't sometimes always get it, 

no." 



" Dat's true. An' maybe w'en dey look 

for it in heaven, dey find it dis side. Well, 

some people is lucky, anyhow. Dey say her 

fodder is give her one diamond chain for 

roun' her neck wid t'irteen stone big like my 

little finger-nail !" 







206 







" Finger-nail ! Ah, bah !" 



u Like my t' um&-na\\, yas ! Dey say he is 

double all de expenses he been had for edu- 

cate an' raise all de udder chillens an' put it 

in diamonds for her. Wat you t'ink?" 



" Oh. well— I t'ink he is right. If I t'ought 

somebody would do me like dat, I would try 

to loss myself too." 



" Yas, but maybe if you loss yo'self, you 

wou'n' find yo'self no more — eh?" 



So, with good-natured pleasantry, the story 

passed from lip to lip. 



For a long, happy year Babette's life was 

a gay round of social triumphs. The ac- 

knowledged belle of the old French city, she 

was the guest of honor at all gatherings — a 

pet with old and young alike. 



The radiant little Creole maiden, who had 

grown up within the four walls of a single 

square with only the companionship of a 

quaint old-fashioned family, with a serious 

intellectual student to direct her reading, 

was a novel product, as charming as she was 

unique. If her single popular "accomplish- 

ment " was playing the harp and singing 

the old-time songs of Madame Bondurante's 

youth, or Clarisse's folk-lore patois jingles, 









THE ACKNOWLEDGED BELEE OF THE OLD FRENXH CITY" 







207 







it was bewitching enough to turn all the 

young men's heads agog, even if her sweet- 

ness and beauty had not already done it. 



With the more thoughtful she loved to 

discuss the old classics, or to naively express 

her own opinions upon the philosophers of 

the day — her familiar friends of old Dr. 

Bondurante's library. 



Of course she had lovers by the score, who 

would have been glad to rob her father a 

second time. But though she called them 

all her friends, and in the atmosphere of de- 

votion at home and abroad her story seemed 

to grow happier and sweeter every day, it 

remained for Somebody not a stranger to 

turn it into a love-story. 



If this Somebody has not been mentioned 

very often during these last pages, it is not 

his fault, as he has been ever near, ever de- 

voted, ever faithful to every promise of his 

early life. If he had tried very hard to turn 

her life into a love-story two years before, 

and to shield her from the life of poverty 

she had chosen, we have seen that he had 

not succeeded. The little maid would have 

her way then. But at last, after two years, 

with everybody's approval, the happy end- 

ing came to his long waiting, and there 







208 







was a great, grand wedding in the French 

quarter. 



And then the story of Babette moved 

away up-town on the American side of the 

city, in the district of beautiful homes and 

spreading gardens. There, in a picturesque, 

beautiful house sitting in the midst of a 

great square, surrounded by lawns and flow- 

er borders, the story still goes on. 



People driving past the house always look 

in, hoping to see the beautiful mistress sit- 

ting beside the white-haired grandmother 

within the rose-bowered balcony, as they are 

wont to do on summer evenings ; and they 

often smile at the funny blinking fellow who 

tends the garden and sits grinning happily 

on the curbing while he turns the sprinkling- 

hose from one flower-bed to another. 



Needless to say Noute is perfectly happy. 

As his head is "not much good for think- 

ing," perhaps he does not realize that it was 

the timely thrust he gave the old gypsy 

many years ago, when he turned her into the 

Bondurante gate, that saved Babette's life, 

and his faithfulness to her afterwards in 

bringing her own to her that preserved the 

only unquestionable witnesses to her iden- 

tity. 







209 



He knows, at least, that she is ever in sight, 

and safe and happy in the keeping of him 

whom he loves next best to herself. 



For himself life holds every possible bless- 

ing, even to a perennial growth of vigorous 

cocoa -grass adown long garden -walks, to 

wage daily war upon. What more could he 

ask? 



The Somebody of the love-story, already 

one of the most popular and successful 

young physicians of the South, is growing 

every year in professional reputation. He 

says he owes it all to Dr. Bondurante ; but 

those who know him for himself, who es- 

teem his high character and love his sympa- 

thetic presence in the sick-room, say that no 

man could have made him what he is. 



Some of the greatest triumphs of his skill 

have been in the " Free Clinic," where poor 

sufferers, unable to pay in money, have gone 

away well and whole, blessing his name. 



But the proudest day of his life was that 

on which the little Creole girl whom he had 

gone to teach in the old French house add- 

ed his name to her own. 



THE END