danse de—

"Mais wait! W'at is dat?"

A bell had rung, and a voice was calling out the depth of the water as shown upon a graduated scale marked low down against the pier. The announcement was half-hourly now.

"W'at he say? T'irteen inches an' a—Dat's a half-inch fall. T'ank God! Maybe St. Joseph an' our women dey save us yet, Adolphe."

"Yas, maybe. Mais I t'ink de winter is full broke in Minnesota, too. No more dat confoun' ice to melt. I looked sure for de water to fall down yesterday. Any'ow, one half-inch is hope. Here, take one cigar. I can smoke, me, on dat half-inch. You got any matches, Felix?"

In finding his match-box Felix's fingers came in contact with the tiny statue of St. Joseph in his pocket, but he was only half sensible of the fact in his nervous joy over the slight decline in the river.

"Hello! Here is Harold Le Duc!" he exclaimed, as, by the light of his match, he chanced to catch the presentment of a distant face in the darkness.

"Hello! Come along, Harry, an' smoke one cigar. We mus' celebrate dat insinuation dat de river is falling. Less dan one inch, it does not count, except to prove she is hesitating; an' you know de ol' saying, 'She who hesitate'—'Hello, young man! You are good for sore eyes!"

The person addressed had come forward with extended hand.

When another match, lighting Adolphe's cigar, revealed the young man's face again, there was something so startling in its wonderful solemnity and beauty that both men were impressed.

"You won't smoke? An'w'y? Come! It is one great comfort, a li'l' smoke. Here, let me—"

He presented the cigars again.

"Well, I thank you, but excuse me now." Young Le Duc took a cigar with a smile. "I'll enjoy it later, maybe; but not until we see a little further. As you say, a half-inch is only a hint, but it is a good one. I am going now up the coast, where trouble waits, and I may need a steady hand before morning. But I think the worst is over. Good night—and thank you. The folks—they are all well?"

"Fine, all fine, and asking always for w'y you don't come to see dem."

But he had gone.

The eyes of both men followed the retreating figure in silence.

It was Adolphe who spoke at last.

"Ah-h-h!" he sighed. "An' yet we complain sometimes, you an' me, eh? I am t'irty-seven years old an' I got t'irteen healt'y chillen an' two gran'chillen, an' my wife—look at her, yo'nger an' happier wid every one—

"Oh, I wonder, me, sometimes, dat God don't just snatch everyt'ing away jus' for spite, w'en we always complain so.

"Did you take occasion to notice dat w'ite hair against dat yo'ng face? An' dey say he never mention his trouble."

"I tell you, like we said, Adolphe, dat river she is—she is—"

He threw up his right palm, as if in despair of adequate language.

"T'ink of coming home from de war, already robbed, to find all gone—home, wife, child, family, servants, all obliterate', an' only de river's mark, green mold an' mildew, on de walls above de mantel in de house; an' outside her still face under de sky to answer, an' she heed no questions. She is called de father of waters? In a sense, yas, maybe. Mais, no. She is, I tell you, de mother of trouble—an' pleasure, too.

"She is, after all, de queen of dis valley, an' no mistake—dat river. When she need fresh ermine for her robe, she throw it over our cotton fields—"

"Yas, an' de black spots, dey are our sorrows. Dat's not a bad resemblance, no."

The speaker looked at his watch.

"Pas' eleven," he said. "Da' 's good luck w'en she start to fall befo' midnight. Oh-h-h! Mais she is one great coquette, yas. She keep you crazy until she get tired wid you, an' den she slip away an' steal her beauty-sleep befo' de clock strike twelve."

"You t'ink she is going to sleep now? Maybe she fool us yet, Adolphe."

"Well, maybe. Mais I have great hope. She begin to nod, and w'en dat happen to a woman or a riv—"

Conversation was suddenly interrupted here by a great crash. The two men started, and, turning, saw an entire section of the improvised embankment fall landward.

Had the stress of the moment been less, they would involuntarily have hastened to the spot, but terror fixed them where they stood. There was but a moment of suspense,—of almost despair,—but it seemed an eternity, before relief came in a great shout which sent vibrations of joy far along the bank, even to those who watched and worked on the right bank of the stream.

It had been only a "dry break." The weights thrown in upon the cotton had been out of plumb, and had pitched the whole structure inward.

The uproar following this accident was long and loud, and had not subsided when the bell rang again, and, with tense nerves strained to listen, the line of men dropped speech. Instead of calling out the decreasing depth, as usual, the crier this time shouted:

"Two inches down, thank God!"

Screams of joy, not unmixed with tears, greeted this announcement. The strain was virtually over.

The two rich men who had stood and talked together mopped their foreheads and shook hands in silence.

Finally it was the older, whom we have called Adolphe,—which was not his name any more than was his companion's Felix,—finally, then, Adolphe remarked quite calmly, as he looked at his watch:

"I am glad dat cotton in de pile is saved, yas. 'T is not de first time de ol' city has fought a battle wid cotton-bales to help, eh, Felix? All doze foundation bales dey belong to Harold Le Duc. He contribute dem, an' make no condition. All dat trash on top de cotton, it catch de tar; so to-morrow we dig it out clean an' give it to him again—an'—an'—

"Well—"

He looked at his watch again, keeping his eyes upon it for a moment before he ventured, in a lower tone:

"Well, I say, Felix, my boy, w'at you say?"

"I di'n' spoke. W'at you say yourself, Adolphe?"

"'Well,'—dat's all I said; jus' 'well.' Mais I di'n' finish. I begin to say, I—Well, I was just t'inking. You know to-night it is de las' opera—don't you forget. No danger to make a habit on a las' night; ain't dat true? For w'y you don't say somet'ing?"

"Ah-h-h! Talk, ol' man! I am listening." Felix looked at his watch now. "An' maybe I am t'inking a li'l' bit, too. Mais go on."

"Well, I am t'inking of doze strange ladies. I am sure dey had many vacant box to-night. Don't you t'ink dey need a little encouragement—not to leave New Orleans wid dat impression of neglect? We don't want to place a stigma upon de gay ol' town. My carriage is here, an' it is yet time. One hour, an' we will forget all dis trouble. I need me some champagne myself."

Felix chuckled and shrugged his shoulders.

"Ah-h-h! Yi! An' me, too, Adolphe. I tol' you I was t'inking also. Mais let us sen' de good news home, an' let doze women off deir knees an' go to bed. My mud'-in-law she is de devil for prayin', an' she is poody stout, po' t'ing!

"We telegram it. Tell dem deir prayers are answered—de water is down—"

"An' our spirits are up, eh? An' we will be home in de morning, w'en de valuable débris is removed."

Felix laughed and touched his friend in the ribs.

"You are one devil, Adolphe. Mais we mus' be good to our women."

"Sure! I am going to return dat compliment you paid me jus' now. You say I am one devil, eh? Bien! An' in response, I say, Felix, you are one saint. You hear me! I say, one saint—uncanonized! Any man dat will telegram a message to save his rich mud'-in-law from maybe sudden apoplexy, he is one saint, sure! Mais you are right. We mus' be good to our women. A happy wife is a joy forever!"

He laughed again as he added: