'*^^jmw^■W'i1 . ■11 I 06 A Story of the Old South. BA^ MARY FRANCES SEIBERT. NATCHEZ. MISS. NATCHEZ PRINTING AND STATIONERY 'cO., 102-104 N. UN40N STREET, 1897. COPYRIGHTED, 1897, MARY FRANCES SEIBERT. MY BELOVED FATHER, THIS LITTLE BOOK IS DEDICATED AS A TRIBUTE OF LOVE BY HIS AFFECTIONATE DAUGHTER, MARY F. SEIBERT. 3Z5S'/C Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2010 with funding from University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill http://www.archive.org/details/zulmastoryofoldsOOseib COISTTENTS. INTRODUCTION. chapti:r I— rp:trospections. CHAPTER II— AWAY TO THE WOODS. CHAPTER III— PIONEERING. CHAPTER IV-IN CHALPA SWAMP. CHAPTER V— A NARROW^ ESCAPE. CHAPTER VI— LUCILE'S GUEST. CHAPTER VII— THE DAWSEYS. CHAPTER VIII- THE DAWN OF A NEW LIFE. CHAPTER IX-NEW SCENES. CHAPTER X— FIRST IMPRESSIONS. CHAPTER XI— INITIATION. CHAPTER XII— LETTERS FROM THE CONVENT. CHAPTER XIII— HOME AGAIN. CHAPTER XIV— ECHOES FROM THE WAR. CHAPTER XV— CORN^E A CHEVREUIL. CHAPTER XVI— JOURNEYING TO SAINT FRANCIS- CHURCH CHAPTER XVII— BENEATH THE LIGHT OF THE STARS. CHAPTER XVIII— AN UNEXPECTED CALL and REVELATION CHAPTER XIX -EPISODES ON ALL SAINTS' DAY. CHAPTER XX— THE PATHOS AND THE COMEDY OF WAR. CHAPTER XXI— THE COUSINS. CHAPTER XXII- JUST FOR FUN. CHAPTER XXIII— LOVE'S WARFARE. CHAPTER XXIV— ON PROBATION. CHAPTER XXV— LAWLERS' INVASION. CHAPTER XXVI— FAITHFUL UNTIL DEATH. CHAPTER XXVII— OVERFLOW AND DISPERSION. CONCLUSION. INTRODUCTION. TN introducing " Zulma, a Story of the Old South,'' to the ^ reading public, I believe that in this day of progress and despite the influence of its so-called realistic literature, there are still some who care to pause now and then and cast a back ward glance at those institutions laid low b}- Time, the arch- iconoclast. Whatever view may be taken of that problem of the South, proposed at Sumpter and solved by Lee's surrender, the writer of romance must derive from the old conditions an ever fruit- ful field of labor, the philosopher, a pregnant theme of thought. Personal knowledge of the incidents interwoven with her story — Miss Seibert having resided in Louisiana during the most vital epoch through which this section has passed — ^has sug- gested to the author the work of which this volume is the is- sue. And while the voice of ''Topsj^" is lifted up in the land proclaiming only the "seamy"' side ot "Uncle Tom's Cabin, " it is not unfit even at this later date, that a "Zulma" be heard in turn and allowed to tell us in her homely way of the kindly, almost paternal relations that existed between master and slave on the old Grosse Tete plantations. J'inall}', I would say that the b( ok must prove its own raison d'etre. Literature, like wine, needs no gaudy label; its own ''hoHquet" must testify unto its worth. Bespeaking tor the book the fair mindedness which we are wont to claim as onr Jin de siecle virtue", I commend this "Story of the Old South" to the courtesy of its homeland press. IRWIN HUNTINGTON. Natchez, Miss., March 1, 1897. i i ZUL_MR." CHAPTER I. B.ETROSPECTIONS. A FEW miles southward from the old town of Waterloo, in ■'*■ the parish of Pointe Coupee, La. , a lovely river winds its way through fertile lands, and clasps in its limpid embrace, an island of almost tropical beauty. Standing on the opposite shore, one watches with unwearied delight, the shifting phases of the landscape reflected on the glassy surface of the river- lake. It is a snare for the azure of the sk}', and the wander- ing clouds by day, and the playgrounds of the moonbeams by night The quaint habitations of the islanders nestle among luxuriant orchards and superb trees like villas on the Larian Lakes; and eveiywhere, along the green banks, the Cherokee spreads and glorifies the land with the light of its golden heart. Farther down, beyond the shadows of the tall pecan trees, ancient willows and cotton woods dip their straggling roots among the yellow blossoms of the American lotus. Sometimes, a {irogue is seen anchored among the lily- pads, where countless flowers lift up their royal heads to greet the matin rays of the sun. The craft sways gently over the dimpling waves and the angler jerks in quick succession, the silver-scaled beauties from their canopied retreat. 10 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. All along the shores, cattle are seen standing in pellucid pastures, munching the succulent weeds which abound in the shallow water. The sight is a delightful feature in the aspect of the river; it harmonizes with the whole and enhances the beauty of the landscape. The sunsets, viewed from ditf'eient points, are gorgeous beyond description; carmine and amber glow and shift across the water until the grey of twilight falls with spectral lustre over the scene. . At night, the distant outlines of wood and shore, form a weird contrast with the moonlight fjkimmering on the waves; and the fugitive light of the stars, dives into its throbbing depths like spirits falling from among the heavenly hosts. But this placid beauty of land and water bus but lately succeeded to a wilder and grander prospect. Years ago, before the cut-offs had been made at Waterloo and Hermitage, False River was the actual bed of the Missis- sippi river; and that mighty stream, with its swift current and turbid waters, here made a detour on its passage to the gulf. It was through this channel that La Salle and his bold fol- lowers, passed on their voyage of discovery; Bienville and his gallant brothers gazed on the wild scenery, Spanish adventurers with their countrys standards waving on the breeze, awoke the echoes of its primival forests, and with their shotguns, startled the deer from his Cherokee thicket. x\nd later still, after Louisiana had been ceded to the United States, and settle- ments had sprung up in various parts of the countrv, Western traders floated their ])arges down around its picturesque shores. Sloops and schooners sailed from New Orleans with tropical cargoes which they bartered for the natural products of the country. kii RETROSPECTIONS 11 Such had been the condition of this section before False River was divorced, from that stupendous water system which now drains the richest and most important region of the Union. During the administration of Governor Bienville, permis- sion was given to a set of pioneers to dig a canal from the up- per to the lower ends of this bend in the river. The distance across being only three miles, it required but a short period of years, for the scouring waters to divert themselves from the natural to the artificial ctiannel. The old bed was then diked at both ends leaving an isolated body of water, now known as False River. Previous to this changCj this territory was in possession of the French, who had overrun the country, raised forts and planted colonies in the most advantageous situations. A fort and chapel had been erected on the west bank of the Missis- sippi river a couple of leagues from the scene already described. Its successor, the old Saint Francis Church, was built in 1765 at a period when the ancestors of those figuring in this story, held a prominent place among the early settlers. A few years previous to the transfer of Louisiana to Spain, a Frenchman by the name of Lafitte, established himself here, on the picturesque bank of False River. This was shortly after the act of free navigation of the Mississippi had been secured by a treaty between the United States and Spain. Mr. Lafitte acquired a considerable amount of wealth, not only b}' the sale of his home products, but by a judicious mode of trafficking with the Indians dispersed around the country. Monsieur Lafitte, usually styled ■ ' Ze bourgeois,'' was a very popular man among the Creoles. He and his four manly sons were of a social disposition, delighting in the chase and reckless adventures; their place was inconsequence, the ren- dezvous of all the jovial characters of the neighborhood. 12 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. The Lafitte residence, though lacking in elegance, was considered spacious and commodious. Its hipped-roof, mud- daubed walls and deep galleries made the characteristics of all Creole houses at that period — a style, though fallen in desue- tude, still seen in the old domiciles which have escaped the ravages of time, and now stand as landmarks to the coming generation. This capacious edifice stood prominent in the midst of a broad meadow where droves of horses and cattle led a life of pleasantness beneath the shade of oaks, grey with the moss of a century's growth. A pair of antiered horns surmounted the posts of the front gate — from which circumstance the place derives its name; ^'■Cornea ChevreuiV (deer-horn plantation.) These trophies bear evidencfe of the family's taste for field sports; in truth, to this overpowering passion for the hounds and chase, may be attributed the losses which, in the course of time jeopardized their property. Once fallen into thriftless and extravagant habits, they neglected their business, before, so absorbing and lucrative. As years rolled on, the place ceased to yield an income and the family began the struggle against accumulating debts. Then, a great sorrow darkened the doors of '^la maision liepJai'snvce," as the Lafittes loved to call their home. One summer afternoon, the aged father, who was taking his accustomed nap on the cool gallery, was suddenly aroused by the bearers of cruel tidings. Eugene, his first-born, had been snatched from life in the prime of his manhood. That very inorning, he had left home with gay companions laughing and jesting, little dreaming of the tragic death which awaited him, though for the hundreth time, it liad been predicted on account of his reckless management of horses. Thej' laid his RETROSPECTIONS. 13 bruised body upon his bed, and the wretched father, in agony of grief, fell senseless upon the remains of him who had been his pride and best beloved. He refused all consolation, and so wrapped himself in his sorrow that his health and energies collapsed as by the efiect of some overpowering malady. When death claimed him as the next victim of that household, he yielded up his life without a struggle. In less than a month after Mr. Lafitte's demise, the youngest of the family, a youth gay, handsome and generous- hearted, succumbed to a malignant fever, aggravated by grief and despondency. Jean Baptiste and Edmond Lafitte returned from their brotlier's burial with hearts oppressed with discouragement. The sight of their deserted home awakened a thousand recol- lections which rushed upon their minds like phantoms loosened from some dismal abode. The brothers turned hastily away, as if to escape the pain so cruelly thrust upon them. They wandered aimlessly across the fields in the direction of a strip of woods, once the hunters' rendezvous. This familiar spot, associated with the happy, careless past, again re-opened the floodgates of sad retrospections, and Edmond, the younger of the two, threw himself in one of the rustic seats beneath the trees, and burst into a passionate fit of weeping. Jean Baptiste with arms folded across his sturdy breast leaned against the trunk of an oak and silently contemplated his brother's emo- tion. His expression grew hard and cold and his lips com- pressed with the eft'orts he made to control his own feelings. Little by little, his brother's sobs subsided, he lifted his eyes and listlessh' watched the gambols of a red squirrel in the branches above him. Dull apathy had succeeded to the wild, uncontrolable anguish which had wrung his heart, a moment before. 14 ZULMA, ACSTORY[OF THE OLD SOUTH. Every faculty of his intelligence, every natural emotion, seemed paralyzed and his senses no longer grasped the full measure of his afflictions. Jean Baptiste quietly took a seat beside his brother and laid his hand affectionately upon his arm, saying: '■'■Tu es le suel lien (pii ))i attache a laterre, cherfreref" Then, followed a conscious pause — a silence more emphatic than words. But the spell was brief; their mutual sorrow, poignant sympathy and discouragement demanded expression, and they talked long and sadly of the ones who hud been so suddenly removed from life — and of their own bereavement and forlorn condition. Their father had died insolvent; the estate was heavily mortgaged. Jean Baptiste touched feelingly upon the subject, signifying his desire to remain on the place and pay off the debts. Edmond decidedl} refused to adopt his brother's plans. "We are homeless and penniless" he said; "the wisest course for us to pursue, is to deliver up the property and leave the country. A man thrown on his own resources, has a better chance among strangers — far from associations which will only tend to weaken his purpose and disqualify him for earnest work." An unwonted light leaped into the moistened eye of Jean Baptiste; his lips quivered with suppressed emotion. "Abandon the old home!" he exclaimed with warmth; "the spot sacred to me by a thousand recollections? Never, brother, jieverl This heritage bequeathed to us by the hand of misfortune, shall never fall to the lot of strangers! I shall devote my life's labor to save it from desecration. You will abandon me — well — the struggle will be harder, but the pros- pect does not alarm me; I will fight life's battle alone." "Let us dismiss the subject from our minds," answered Edmond after a moments painful reflection, "at least, until RETROSPECTIONS. 15 after we have resigned ourselves to the inevitable. "Come, brother!" he continued, rising from his seat — "there is no escape from the ordeal before us the desolation which awaits us at home." Jean Baptiste silently followed his brother through the long evening shadows, his eyes full of unshed tears, searched for, though dreading to catch the first glimpse of their lonely home. It emerged from a grove of catalpa trees; the dying rays of the setting sun fell athwart their 3'oung, uplifted branches and cast a faint glow against the gable end of the building. At their approach, half a dozen hounds scampered down the galler}' steps, yelping in doeful chorus, A flock of pigeons whirled on restless wings about the barn; they clamored for the accustomed feed often distributed to them by hands now cold in the stony clasp of death. The unhappy brothers, dreading to pass the threshold of their deserted home, loitered about the place, mechanically performing their farm work. After dusk, thev sat on the gallery until the moon arose and bridged with gold the undu- lating waves of the river. Climbing over'the trees, she looked down with milder radiance upon the bereaved ones, and flooded with light, the three vacant chairs beside them. In the course of time, settlements were made and the wishes of both brothers were realized. Edmond made a sur- render of his rights and left the country. Jean Baptiste assumed the debts and entered his new career. His life of ease and indolence, was exchanged for one of tireless labor and privation. At the end of fifteen years, he found himself sole owner of the '•'■Come a ChevreuiV plantation. The better part of his life had been spent in accomplishing his purpose. He had denied himself every pleasure, even the most legiti- mate or such as the mind derives from nature without the expenditure of time and labor. 16 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. He then brought to its solitude, a sweet-faced woman, who had faithfull}' loved him throughout his struggles. Dur- ing the waiting, the charms and graces of youth had van- ished; for both had passed the prime of life. But their wedding day dawned upon their heads with subdued happiness. The wife's gentle presence in that great, rambling house, contributed much towards dissipating the gloom which had for so long pervaded its atmosphere; and the cloud of tender melancholy under which they had been wedded, vanished like mist under the benign influence of the sun. On a blight morning in June; while the mocking birds vied with each other in thrilling concerts, Jean Baptiste Lafitte, with an undefinible expression on his countenance, walked with elastic steps, the length of his broad gallery. Now and then, he paused to listen to the merry warblers; the melod}' oi their singing had never before entered his soul. On glancing at the river, he noticed how the waves sparkled in the sunlight; he even contrasted the verdant banks and peaceful scenery on the opposite shore, with the intense blue of the water. Why was he idle on that day, and what caused the strange workings of a mind hitherto insensible to the beauties of nature? Within a darkened chamber of the old home, two bright eyes strove for the first time to pierce its obscurity eyes destined to dispel the last lingering regrets for a wasted vouth, and to cheer and brighten up the remaining years of the lonely couple. The coming of the baby was the crowning event of their life. Day by day, they watched with increasing wonder and happiness the unfolding beauty and mental qualities of the child. At the age of fourteen, she was sent to the 8acred Heart Convent, then the most prominent female school in the State, She acquired accomplishments which added considerably to her natural advantages. RETROSPECTIONS. 17 Her fond parents and former companions looked upon her as a prodigy; but Elise never made a display of her superior knowledge. The sweetness of her disposition and the artless graciousness of her manners, won her the friendship of all who approached her. Her beauty was of that unobstrusive sort which improves under scrutiny. There was a lack of brilliancy about her general appearance ; but all watched with pleasure, the timid glances of her dark eyes and the sweet, winning smile which parted her red lips. One of the events on False Kiver,at this particular period, was a "king ball." *rhis was an affair in which any gentleman willing to assist in defraying expenses, was entitled to the privilege of choosing his "queen." The maiden whom he thus invested with regal honors, usually received his undivided at- tentions during the ball. From time to time, Elise Lafitte graced with her presence these popular gatherings. On such occasions, the boldest and handsomest of "cavaliers" com- peted for the honor ot crowning her fair brow with roses. It was at one of these balls, that a distinguished looking stranger first formed her acquintance. The fact of meeting in this community, a creole who spoke the English language, gave him unexpected pleasure, as well as an excuse for lingering at her side — much to the annoyance of older admirers. Her musical voice, enhanced by her sweet French accent, charmed him. The calm dignity of her beauty and other winning graces, captivated his heart. And she who had so often turned a deaf ear to the plead- ings of the Creole boys, listened to the "American's" love story and found herself vanquished by the thrilling glances of his dark-blue eyes, Arthur Hunt was a Virginian by birth; ihe came from an old aristocratic family who had lost their wealth by injudicious management. Being of a venturesome turn of mind, he launched out at an early age to seek his fortune. Time and tide drifted him to this romantic part of the parish and its 18 ZtfLMA, A STORY OP THE OLD SOUTH. quaint population. He was of a genial disposition and ex- tremely clever; consequently, was much liked by the Creole families. His frank, charming manners rendered him a great favorite among the ladies; though he did not always inspire the same friendl}' feelings in the hearts of the younger men of the country. The air of ease and unstudied elegance with which he car- ried himself, his tone of confidence and self-possession, often subjected him to unpleasant experiences. The young men looked upon him as an interloper and dangerous rival, and somewhat resented the ready and indispuitible manner in which he was received and lionized by the prominent families of the communit3^ This circumstance only stimulated him to increase his popularity among the better class, and to render himself truly worth) of their respect and friendship. With a little assistance, he started in a mercantile enter- prise. There were few stores in the country at that time, and every merchant endowed with the least business capacity held the nucleous of a fortune. Mr. Hunt's unprecedented success, enboldened him to ask for the hand of the woman he loved. When he presented himself for permission to address their daughter, the old couple made but faint resistance. They recalled their own prolonged courtship and wasted youth, and yielded without demur, their heart's treasure, to the bold and handsome suitor, who, in every respect, seemed worthy of the prize to which he aspired. The wedding took place in the old home where the numerous friends and admirers of the happy pair flocked to offer their congratulations. Mr. Hunt took his lovely bride to an attractive and com- fortable cottage he had prepared for her reception, half a dozen miles from her paternal roof. After their daughter's marriage, Mr. Lafitte and his gentle wife, once more, subsided into their accustomed ways. The grave, weather-beaten husband pursued his life of toil and his faithful companion plodded by his side, as indus- trious and economical as though they still depended on their daily labor for their livelihood. AWAY TO THE WOODS ! l9 CHAPTER II. AWAY TO THE WOODS ! A QUARTER of a century prior to the Confederate war, False River and the adjacent countr}', formed the most interesting region in Louisiana. It was famous for its genial and salubrious climate, for the fertility of its soil and for the value and variety of its for- est trees. Bayous, alive with the finest fish, intersected the country and diversified its scenery. Many of the planters were immensely wealthy and owned plantations which extended sev- eral miles along the river front. Here, primitive homes were seen through vistas of live oaks, catalpis and china trees. Here, the people lived on the abundant fruit of their labor, undisturbed and oblivious of the agitations and progress of modern lite. None enjoyed tran([uility more; none dispensed more liberal hospitality when occasion required. No wonder strangers tarried in their midst, and when away, longed, once more, to taste of the magic waters of False River. But the country was not without its disadvantages. The Mississippi river, at certain seasons of the year, became a source of expense and annoj'ance to the population living be- hind the levees. For a long period, especially during the French and the Spanish rule, levees had been kept up by the front proprietors, though in time of danger, planters occupying alluvial lands back of the river, were required to lend assist- ance. But in 1849, Congress passed an act, donatinj^ to Louisiana, the swamps and lowlands subject to overflows. This concession was made in order to encourage the people to purchase the lands and aid in the construction ,of these costly embankments. 20 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. Previous to this, the work done on the levees, was so in- adequate iind defeetiA^e, that no reliance could be placed on them. Year after year, they succumbed to the overwhelming waters and disastrous overflows spread over a wide extent of territory. The front lands along False River escaped these inundations, but thousands of acres which rivaled in fertility, the fruitful valley of the Nile, lay idle in consequence of this impending danger. The Grosse Tete country was then a trackless wilderness; its virgin soil, rich beyond description, needed but the plow- share and seed to burst into fecundity. Hitherto, its only paths had been made by wild beasts and cattle roaming in search of food. The Indian and the hunter were the only human beings who had traversed them or built camp-fires in the midst of its luxurance. But after the levees had been strengthened and enlarged, the enterprising lost no time in seizing opportunities which they knew would open to them a wide avenue to future wealth. People from all parts of the parish turned with longing hearts to this Land of Promise. Tlie labor of leveling the forests when once begun, was prosecuted with incredible zeal and expedition. Within a few years, passable roads were made across the country and the most enterprising adventurers had reared primitive dwellings among the stumps on the freshly cleared lands. From the east bank of the Mississippi, from the tired old hills, the people came and cast their lots with those who had ventured nearer home. On False River, that region of romance and ethereal loveliness, merchants and planters disposed of their property to invest in Grrosse Tete lands. The glowing accounts the new settlers gave of life in the backwoods; the AWAY TO THE WOODS ! 21 spontaneous growth of the crops and their marvelous yields; the abundance of fish, of game; the fine pasturage and numer- ous other advantages, induced Mr. Hunt to give up merchan- dizing in order to launch in this new enterprise. He bought nearly a thousand acres of this public land and began clearing that portion of it fronting baj'ou Grosse Tete. In less than nine months, the stalwart force he had put to work, had cleared and prepared for cultivation a hundred acres of the richest land in the valley of the Mississippi; and a year after the purchase, a dozen substantial buildings had been erected among the blackened stumps and cane stubbles. At some distance from the precipitous bank of the bayou, stood a cabin, larger and more commodious than those destined for the slaves ; it was a temporaiy dwelling for the master's family. Mr Hunt remained on the place to superintend the work, and was, for many months, the sole occupant of this lonely abode. He had confided his wife and child to the care of the old people at '■^Cornea Cheveruil." In the meantime, he hastened the arrangements for their reception; he could no longer endure life without their com- panionship. The day of their departure for Grosse Tete, fell on a warm, serene morning in the month of December, such a De- cember as dawns in Louisiana, when a balmy fall, with its genial train, precipitates itsehf into the arms of winter. For a fortnight, the south winds had been gamboling over the freshly carpeted earth, and the mellow rays of the sun had weaved their golden shreds about the leafless branches of the trees. The mocking birds returned to their haunts, and re- opened their musical career. All day the robins and sparrows chattered unmindful of their comrades, that from time to timS; toppled over, igaomiuous sLrangled with china balls. 22 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. During the last week of Ler sojourn at the old home, Mrs. Hunt found a melancholy pleasure in watching from the gal- lery, the reflection of the moon on False Eiver. She confessed that she had never before adequately appreciated the splendor of the spectacle until the time came to leave this familiar scene of her youth. Her little daughter, Lucile, then scarcely five yeara old, was a remaikably interesting and intelligent child. She had inherited her father's fine complexion and dark-blue eyes, and her mother's beautiful mouth. Her face was exquisitely moulded and the loveliest of dimples played hide-and-seek on her dainty chin. Lucile had become the idol of her grandpar- ents, and the thought of separation grieved them sorely. It was pitiful to witness their distress on the day of her departure for Grosse Tete. They cluag to her till the last moment, call- ing her by the most endearing names their love suggested. ^'■Chere coeur,' ^^bijon," '■^hien ahnee,'' were a few, among the affectionate terms they bestowed upon her, as Mrs. Hunt, with a dull, aching pain at her heart, withdrew the child from their detaining arms. Mr. Hunt sent Dave, the trusty driver, after his wife and child; he himself stayed to prepare for their reception and to. extend to them, the welcome they so richly deserved. He knew that the anticipations of this meeting, would, in a great measure, assuage the pain of the separation with the lonel^^ old people and perhaps, divert their minds from the dreary, and uninviting part of the country through which they would pass, on their homeward journey. The long ride, through the woods and canebrakes, was fatiguing and monotonous to Mrs. Hunt, but it was an enjoya- ble one to Lucile, who often amused her mother with her cute observations. During one of her silent spells, Mrs. Hunt watched with affectionate interest, the puzzled expression of the child's lively countenance. AWAY TO THE WOODS ! 23 "Does my baby find the trees and bashes pretty?" she asked, toying with the bright ringlets escaped from the crimson hood. "I'm looking at the long ropes, God ties the trees with," answered Lucile, ca, as the boat in which they were to travel was not due until nine o'clock that night. They walked back to the large brick building, the lower story of which served as a store and warehouse. The proprietor invited them upstairs into a comfortable parlor, where a cheerful fire burned in the grate. One of the clerks brought them a plate of apples. As they had taken nothing since dinner, the fruit was eaten with considerable relish. Lucile, with her h<»ad reclining on her mother's knee, had just dozed off into a confortable nap, when she was suddenly aroused by the loud blowing of a boat. She started to her feet, her mind filled with vague apprehensions. NEW SCENES. 95 At the same moment, her father's voice was heard from the staircase. "Hurry up Elise, put ou your wraps, the boat is coming." A general stir was perceptible about the place. Boys of both colors were running towards the levee, carrying bundles and lanterns; negro men trundled wheelbarrows before them; and others drove carts and drays through the breach in the levee. There was hurry, confusion, loud talking and indis- criminate remarks among the crowd. "Dat boat ahead of time, ain't she?" asked one of the darkies perched upon a pile of cotton bales. "She is dat," answered another; "but she know she got a load to take offer dis yere landin'." "She gwine to take mos' an hour to load up." "Law! jis look at dat pile of lasses barls. " "I wish one of dem barls would take a notion to buss!" remarked one of the boys, kicking at the innocent object of his spite. "I rudder see de hoat blow up." "Not me, I'd be skeered." "Yere she come! look atter jes' a skimmin'! She mind me of 'eaven." "You nebber been dere, Jim." "But I'se a gwine sum dese days." "Git out! dat's all de 'eaven you gwine to see; white folks ain't gwine to let you in." "Ain't she a blaizer!" On reaching the levee , Lucile beheld before her, in mid- stream, a "real — live — boat." The spectacle struck her dumb with wonder and admiration. She gazed in rapture upon the magnificent thing moving onward in a blaze of light and beauty. How inadequate had been Zulma's description of a steamboat! 96 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. From bow to stern the craft was simply superb — a floating palace radiant in the light which streamed from a long array of chandeliers. With spontaneous grace, she turned her prow shoreward, swaying from side to side as she glided on the waters with swift and majestic motions. "0 how beautiful!" cried Lucile; ''she is like an enchanted palace, floating on the water." Suddenly, there was a clanging of bells; the boat, with tremendous heavings, straightened herself and began to dis- charge her steam with deafening uproar. The tall chimneys belched forth clouds of black smoke, and in the glare of the furnace fires, the swarthy crew appeared in sight. The flames from the torch baskets flared up wildly, flinging out a shower of sparks which fell in the foaming waves below. Above the noise, the clatter and rumblings, the voice of the mat^e arose, harsh and predominent. "Hurry up, hurry up there — you black scoundrels! — pitch in with that plank will you? What are 3'ou waiting for? In- stead of standing there losing time, why don't you load up and be ready the minute the boat lands, you lazj' rascals?" "Dou't you see that pile of freight there tor Waterloo? Straighten that stage there so the ladies can pass." And the poor devils actually plunged into the cold mud, dragging after them the heavy gang-plank. Their outlandish outcries added to the terror of the scene. Lucile clung to her father's arm, in genu- ine fright. To her, the once beautiful boat, had been trans- formed into a monster, breathing forth fire and destruction, ready to overwhelm them in a direful catastrophe. She glanced up at tlie crowded guards. Oh! heavens; there were hundreds of human beings, unconscious of the disaster which awaited them. These were the reflections which transfixed the girl to the spot; and it was with some diflflculty that her father NEW SCENES. 97 persuaded her to descend the levee. Mr. Hunt led his daugh- ter onto the forecastle, past the heaving engine, up the reeking stairs and midway into the ladies' cabin, before she raised her eves or comprehended the situation. On glancing up, she be- held for the first time, all the splendor of the converging vista which opened before her — the receding cabin, its carvings, scrolls and golden devices; its filigree work and rich paintings; the handsome furniture and the carpets upon which she feared to tread. At the upper end of the magnificent tunnel, an ele- gant mirror reflected the lights of a long row of chandeliers, which hung resplendent in glittering showers of glass drops. From her tenderest years, Lucile was in the habit of elevating her heart to God in every emergency. In the splendor of her surroundings, her thoughts sped like arrows to the mercy seat with a half muttered petition for the preservation of the boat. Then, a feeling of peace and security succeeded the anxieties which had assailed her on coming aboard, and she gazed with unsuppressed delight at the passengers and the novel scene around her. An hour later, the Hunt family sat at a table spread with a tempting repast. Lucile, with apparent cheer- fulness, commented on her late experiences. "Have I been a disgrace to you, dear papa?" she asked,- looking up apprehensively into her father's face. "No, darling," he replied. I made allowances for a little girl brought up in the woods, you know; I dare say you will, in a short time, adapt yourself to the ways of civilized life." Lucile was here thrown with the elite of Southern society, and she witnessed much which pleased and interested her. She was charmed with the listless grace and fascinating manners of elegantly gowned women, who lounged on cushioned seats, dis- coursing on topics beyond the comprehension of her unworldly and untutored mind. In their midst, a bevy of lovely, chil- 98 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. dren gamboled over the gorgeous carpet. Pert waiting maids stood at the stateroom doors, ready to obey orders. Black nurses carried about precious bits of humanity half smo hered in laces and flannels. A set of young people hovered around the piano and enlivened the scene with music and song. It was with reluctance that Lucile withdrew from the brilliant salon tor the I'etirement of her stateroom. The novelty of her situation had, in a measure, soothed the pain which gnawed at her heart. But in darkness and solitude, her mind once more feverted to the morrow's trial, and she lay for hours pondering and listening to the uproar of waters under the wheel; to the clanging of chains and the throbbing of the great engine be- low. A few hours before dawn, fatigue overpowered her be- wildered senses, and her tearful lashes fell heavily and perma- nently upon her pale cheeks. When Lucile and her parents took their seats at the breakfast table on the following morn- ing, she surveyed with childish curiosity the bright array of glass and silverware, the snowy napery and exquisite service which decorated the board. She cast a quick, significant glance at her mother, who comprehended instantly the purport of the message, and responded by the same telegraphy. "It is indeed, beautiful!" She then ventured to examine the strange faces around her, without once suspecting that slit herself, was an object of interest to a number of persons at the table. Her sweet face, her frank and iniellectual countenance, and above all, her bird like shyness, were subjects of comments among the passengers. At some distance opposite, two elderly ladies from St. Louis, sat at their morning's repast; they had already partaken of a hearty breakfast when the Hunt family made their appearance, and the attention of the staid couple was at once arrested. The younger of the two leveled her glasses and stared at the group. NEW SCENES. 99 she remarked to her com- panion. "I 5hould think so," responded she, scrutinizing the party referred to; "those two must be her parents; the child resem- bles her mother, only she has her father's fine ej^es. " "She would have been just as fortunate bad she inherited those of her mother — they are as^uminous as stars." "Upon the whole, they are the most genteel looking peo- ple I ever met. I wonder who they are? Ask Mr. Thompson. ' The lady with the eyeglasses turned to the gentleman on the left: "Pray excuse me for interrupting j'ou sir, but Margarite and I are really curious to know who that gentleman is over there — the one talking to the little girl dressed in Blue?" "His name is Hunt," replied the person addressed. ' 'But who is he — a congressman?" "What puts such a notion into your head?" asked Mr. Thompson, laughing. "Why, because he has such a distinguished appearance — so striking and ^comme il font,' as they say m French." "Mr. Hunt is a planter from Pointe Coupee; those two are his wife and daughter," explained Mr. Thompson. "A planter!" ejaculated the lady: "who would have thought so!" "My dear Madam, one would think you underate that class of people; why the name of '■'■planter," especially in Pointe Coupee, is, I may sa}', a cognomen — -a name synonomus with wealth, culture and the highest social standing. Many of these planters have magnificent estates, keep a retinue of sev- vants and entertain in a princely style. The education they give to their children is never complete without a tour through Europe. Indeed, they are personages of so much importance that the captains of steamboats will sometimes delay half an 100 ZULMA. A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. hour at a landing for one of these potentates to get through with his dinner. No wonder; some of them ship a thousand bales of cotton or an equal number of hogsheads of sugar." The ladies e3'ed with increasing interest the subjects of their discussion. "I should like to know,' said one of them, "whether this one lives in a mansion and dispenses hospitality in the style you mentioned. '■ 'I am under the impression, ' replied her neighbor, "that Mr. Hunt is a man of wealth and position; he receives a great deal of attention from the officers of the boat. " 'It is certainly the most distinguished looking family I have ever met," reiterated the lady, rising from her seat and casting a lingering glance at the unsuspecting objects of her admiration. Lucile and her mother formed many pleasant acquaintances during the rest of their journey They were spending their time so agreeal)ly, that the}' beheld with regret, the termina- tion of their voyage. The boat's loud signal for the Convent landing, awakened new and contiicting emotions in the bosom ot the sensitive girl. She sto^d with her mother on the rear guards, watching with heightened color for the first glimpse of the Convent. As the boat swung around for the landing, a distant view of the white pile emerged in graceful and har- monious outlines. There it was at last — that Convent so long and strongly associated with the hopes and fears of her child, hood. It loomed grandly before them — a seat of learning, a sanctuary of virtue, and the asylum of pure souls. How pleas- ant it would have been, had they come only for a visit to this lovely place! She was so well acquainted with Convent rules, she had heard so much of the good nuns and the peaceful lives the inmates led within those white walls. But the sight of it t NEW SCENES. 101 reminded her of the separation in store for her, and her bosom heaved so distressingly that she clasped her hands over it to still the pulsations of her heart. A forest of trees, stripped of their foliage, formed a sumbre background and brought in relief the details of the palatial structure. The long galleries and clustered columns of the main building, formed a charm- ing combination with the two wings, and added to the beauty and majesty of that peculiar style of architecture. The mellow autumn sun gided the cross which surmounted one of the wings and indicated the house of prayer. A magnificent gar- den extended from the marble steps to the white fence. Grace- ful walks and allej's fnnged with privet and roses, intersected the parterre. A variety of tropical plants mingled their ver- dure with the cedar and oleander, and suggested rambles and pleasant gatherings beneath their classic shades. Two shrines, like miniature gothic temples, lent an air of elegance to the grounds. But the lovliness of this statel}' abode contributed nothing towards cheering the heart of Lucile. She followed sadly and reluctantl}' the Convent porter who conducted visi- tors from the levee to the stone paved entrance leading to the Convent parlors. 102 ZUL^rA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. CHAPTER X. FIRST IMPRESSIONS. A PORTIERE, tall, dark and cadaverous, answered Mr. ■'*■ Hunt's summons at the bell. Her sombre habit and melancholly aspect awed Lucile, and she involuntarily shrunk from her as from an unearthly apparition. The nun gravely nodded to the visitors as she held open the door which led into the vestibule. After cautiously turning the key in the lock, she invited them to enter the spacious parlor. "Will you have the goodness to send to me Mother Alche- nar ?" asked Mrs. Hunt of the sad-faced portress. "Give me your name, please," she asked in an almost in- audible voice. "Pardon me, I was once a pupil here, and I wish to sur- prise Mother Alchenar. " The mournful eyes gazed with awakened curiosity into the speaker's countenance; for an instance they glowed in their sockets like stars receding into space. "I do not re- member you,'' she remarked in French. "You must have been here before I entered;" and the phantom-like form softly vanished from the apartment. "What a ghostly figure!"' exclaimed Mr. Hunt, seating himself upon one of the stiff sofas lining the glossy walls. "Do all the nuns assume such melancholy airs?'' "Indeed, no," replied his wife, "they are, on the contrary, the happiest and most cheerful looking people in the world." "Oh! Mamma, " cried Lucile, "I do hope she will never be my teacher." FIRST IMPRESSIONS. '' I(l3 "You need have no fears, dear, she is the portiere, you see, and has nothing else to do but to attend the bell and saj' her prayers. ' "She is a sort of St. Peter, then," suggested the child, looking brightly into her mothers face. "Yes. truly: for I believe all pupils of the Sacred Heart are candidates for heaven." In the course of the session, someone related to Lucile the history of the sad-faced religious. . Manj' of the nuns still remembered Marie Daquin, a young girl, tall anil lithesome, whose black e^es sparkled with mischief and merriment. Even during the study hours, her teachers found it difticult to subdue her exuberant spirits, or suppress her untimely laugh- ter. Her frolicsome habits and lively disposition were the causes of her losing many a coveted prize, and of being de- spoiled of the honors repeatedly conferred upon her more tractable companions. Notwithstandmg her waywardness, the girl was intuitively pious. Kach time she entered the con- fessional, her handkerchief was bedewed with tears of repent- ance, shed over venial faults, and each recreation found her bending over her slate, expiating trangressions over which she had abundantly wept. The girls were shocked and scan- alized when, several times, she announced her predilection for the religious life. "Why, Marie!" they would exclaim, "how dare you? You are not even a 'Ribbon!'" alluding to a class of girls who wore this badge of honor. Thus reprimanded, the poor child would suppress for a time, the aspirations of her soul. She left the convent with the secret hope of returning shortly to embrace her chosen vocation. But on her arrival home, she found her father suffering from some insiduous disease, which, for a number of year, had been undermining his con- 104 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUT?[. stitution. His physicians were unable to relieve him, and he was reduced to a condition which demanded the constant at- tention of his wife and daughter. The health of the former yielded to the harrassing fatigue entailed upon her, and in time, tended to develop consumption, a hereditary disease in the family. Mr. Daquins death occurred seven years after his daughter had left the convent. During his long and dis- tressing illness, she had nursed him with tender devotion, and had denied herself all the pleasures congenial to persons of her age. Immediately after her father's death, a burden still heavier fell upon her shoulders. She saw her mother perish- ing by degrees in the grip of another hopeless malady, and during fifteen years she watched her mother's sufferings and administered to her wants. At the end of that time her youth had vanished; and with it, her gracf^ of form and the lustre of her beauty. She was now left free to follow her inclinations for the religious life; but she had watched so long by the bed- side ot the sick and dying, and had become so accustomed to her cross, that she seemed to linger in its shadow. Her former desire predominated, however, and after a time she re- traced her steps to the home of her happy girlhood, and laid at the foot of the altar, her broken heart and withered youth. And thus it was, that time had failed to remove the traces which years of unbroked gloom and sorrow had imparted to her physiognomy. The portress had not been tardy in delivering her message; the ' ' Mistress General " soon appeared at the threshold. Though somewhat advanced in years, her deportment was still strikingly graceful and lady-like. Her sweet, intellectual features lighted up with a benevolent smile, as she advanced to meet the strangers. Mrs. Hunt hastened to her and warmly grasped her hand. "Mother Alchenar, do you not know me?"' FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 105 The gentle nun gazed intently into the upturned face be- fore her; her mind reverted to memory's gallery, thickly crowded with girlish faces, and a passing frown ruffled her serene brow, in her effort to single out a particular one among them. Inadvertently she glanced to where Lucile stood watch- ing the result of the interview. Something m the girl's ex- pression awakened the dormant faculties of her mind, for a sudden flash of light illuminated her countenance, and she exclaimed with joyful readiness: "Why, this is Elise Lafitte! " Clasping warmly to her bosom, the hands of her former pupil, she imprinted on either cheek a fervent, religious caress. Too full of emotion for utterance, Mrs. Hunt gazec", through her tears, into those clear, lustrous eyes which Time had so kindly ignored. " I am glad you recognized me, Mother, even though it required such an effort on your part." ' ' I was- not prepared for the personal change in you, my child; Nevertheless, 1 can read your character, and can vouch for its integrity ; although you have been in conflict with the world, it has not spoiled the qualities of your heart." "You have judged me rightly. Mother," answered Mrs. Hunt; "now that I find m3'self in convent walls once more, and behold your familiar face, I almost imagine myself a pupil again under the sweet influence of your authority. But see," continued she, turning to Lucile and beckoning to her, "I have brought you another Elise to perpetuate my memory." Lucile was touched by the warm reception tendered her by her mother's old friend, and notwithstanding her timidity, she found herself in a few moments on the best of terms with the good nun. Mr. Hunt was equally pleased with her; he 106 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. was lost in admiration of her candor, her good sense and other noble traits of character. He now understood how the natural qualifications of his wife had been so admirably developed and perfected, and he sincerely trusted that the same benign influ- ence would be exercised over the mind and heart of his darling child. The party sat for an hour, conversing pleasantly, on topics both worldly and conventual. Mother Alchenar had much to relate of the changes which had taken place, and tlie events which had transpired at the convent since Mrs. Hunts pupilage. The superioress, she knew, had ended her career of usefulness and piety, and a nun of Irish descent, by the name of Shannon had replaced her. "If you will excuse me for a moment," said the amiable religion?, rising from her seat, ' ' 1 shall make you acquainted with our Eev. Mother. ' Our friends were struck with the air of stateliness which distinguished this illustrious personage. Her brow, full of thought and purpose, indicated the leading spirit of that com- munity. But, notwithstanding her innate consciousness of superiority, her steel blue eyes sparkled with animation, and a genial smile lighted up her rubicund face. There was m her tenaperament a childish faculty for mirth, and a spontaneity of humor which rendered her a very entertaining companion. Lucile listened with interest to her wise and salient conversa- tion; the recluse's familiarity with subjects of worldly and political import, astonished her and increased her admiration and respect. Mother Shannon had taken her by the hand and kindly questioned her about her studies and home life; yet, Lucile stood in awe of one in whom were combined authority and such brilliant qualities of the mind; she preferred the gen- tle and sweet-tempered Mistress-General. Her refined man- FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 107 ners, her cordiality and motherly ways had, from the first, won her heart. She longed to throw her impulsive arms around her neck and implore her for the love and interest she once bestowed upon her mother. But she dared not trust to the feelings of her own heart, which threatened at every mo- ment to overcome her. Lucile was greatly surprised when the grave and portly Mother Shannon offered to accompany them on a tour of inspection through the building; this seemed to her a condescension. In a hall of interminable length, they met the portress, who passed them without the faintest sign of recognition. She walked rapidly by, her mournful visage almost hugging the walls. Her black veil fluttered in the breezy passage, like the shroud of a phantom ship, gliding silently in a gale. One class-room after another revealed its ranks of rosy- cheeked girls who, upon the entrance of the visitors, arose from their seats and displayed their smiling countenances. Then visits were made to the neat and airy dormitories, each of which is dedicated to some particular saint, represented in painting or statuary. Wherever they passed, the floors shone like alabaster, and the most scrupulous order prevailed. The tables in the vast refectory had been set for supper; an array of two hundred silver goblets enumerated the pupils enrolled. This was a familiar scene to Mrs. Hunt; but it was a vexed question to Lucile, by ichat means a repast could be prepared for such a number, and from what source such an abundance could be derived. It did not require much time for her to in- vestigate the matter. Many were her surreptitious visits to the convent kitchen, where she stood before a monster range and watched in wonder, the greatness of its capacities. A dozen lay sisters assisted the chief cool- — a merry-hearted fel- low, who made the place ring with anthems. The slave pos- 108 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. sessed a voice of extraordinary compass and melody, and sang with enthusiasm, ail the masses and chants he had heard in the convent chapel. Whether at the glowing fui-nace, or out in the open air preparing fruits and vegetables for dinner, his features shone wilh cheer, and the joy fulness of his heart found vent in ceaseless song. On hearing his vocal manojuvres one would be tempted to think that a priest and full choir were holding solemn service in the culinary department. Strange to say the sisters never interfered with this peculiar flow of spirits nor protested against it, but moved about in silent oc- cupation, unmindful of the mimic singer. Lucile would often take a peep into the marble-floored dairy, where an inexhaustible supply of rich milk, cream, cheese and butter, filled the air with lacteal fragrance. And there was the cool, sweet-scented pantry, with its clean cypress shelves, freighted with well-replenished crocks, jars and glasses. Red-cheeked apples and odorous oranges lay in tempting rows for ready and wholesome desserts. With a knowledge of the resources on hand, Lucile ceased to wonder at the abundance daily provided at the meals. The visitors found but one patient in the infirmary — a pretty and delicate looking child of eight. She sat in a tiny rocking chair, turn- ing with listless grace the leaves of a picture-book. On a gaudily painted waiter near her, was a plate containing a lunch of amber-colored preserves and crackers; from all appearance, the dainty sweet had failed to tempt the invalid's appetite. On the entrance of the strangers, she arose to make her little courtesy; a few stray curls fell caressingly upon her brow; she looked so sweet, so sad and interesting; she seemed so young to be sent away from home, that Mrs. Hunt's maternal sym- pathies were touched. She could not resist the impulse of going to the child and kissing her. Lucile followed her moth- er's example. FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 109 "What is your name? " asked Mrs. Hunt, carressing the delicate hand which lay passively in one of hers. "Ada St. Armand,'" responded she. in a sweet creoIe accent. "Ada is such a pretty name! My little girl here, is called Lucile. I hope you two will become great friends." Ada looked up with a frank smile into Lucile's face, and placing her hand on her arm, asked in an earnest tone: " Will you stay with me, Lucile?" "She is an orphan," explained Mother Shannon, on leav- ing the inflrmary. ' ' Both of her parents died of the heart disease. Immediately after her mother's death she was sent to us by an uncle, who himself packed up her trunk, in which, by the way, were man}- of her poor mother's clothes. The child has undoubtedly inherited the fatal malady of her par- ents. She is in wretched health and must be treated like an exotic." The knowledge of Ada's sad history augmented Mrs. Hunt's interest and sympathy in her behalf. On her visit to the beautiful convent chapel, Mrs. Hunt knelt at the altar railing, where oft, in her girlhood, she had said her prayers and watched the glimmer of the sanctuary lamp. She now asked for strength to overcome the loneliness of heart, wliich she knew awaited heron her return home with- out that dear companion, who for twelve j^ears had been her joy and solace. From the chapel they descended into the ex- tensive jmrterre and grounds, where shrubs of every variety, and the lovliest of autumnal flowers filled the air with their spicy odors. They came to a corner in a southern exposure of tlie garden, where one of the sisters was at work among cold frames, sheltered by a group of orange ttees, then loaded 110 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. with fruit. -'Sister Josephine," said the Mother Superior, "give our friends some of your oranges." The owner of the tropical orchard prided herself on the size, sweetness and excellence of its productions. "£"« rVa de hcUes,'" she made answer, opening a large basket which lay on the turf beside her. " ./e les avais con- seroees pour F injirnwrip. Mrs. Hunt protested against accepting what had been destined for the sick. Sister Josephine assured her with much earnestness, that she had ouly gathered the over-ripe, and that the season was so far advanced, she would be compelled in a few days to despoil the trees of the rest of their treasures. At this moment, the stroke of a great bell floated in the air and announced the vesper hour. The last glow of the evening light wa3 expiring over the arched roofs of the garden sanctu- aries. All the unoccupied nuns were to retire to the chapel, where they read, in sad monotones, certain Psalms arranged for vespers. When the last, solemn tones vibrated in the still atmosphere, Mrs. Hunt turned to Lucile. "Good-night, dar- ling," she said in a voice which shook with suppressed emotion. For the first time in her life, Lucile was to be separated from her mother. She burst into an uncontrolable fit of weeping. "We shall see you again to-morrow, my pet; we are only going over there to the boarding house, " said Mr. Hunt, re- , moving her hands from her face that he might kiss her. "0, papa! do let me go with you," pleaded she, wiping with desperation the tears, which flowed in streams, from her flushed cheeks. "No," answered her father with firmness; "it is best that you remain here to-night. It will not be so painful, my love, knowing you will see ub again in the morning " FIRST IMPRESSIOXS. Ill "Foolish child! " said Mother Alchenar," taking Lucile by the hand. "Come with me; by morning you will be so pleased with us, nothing will persuade you to leave the convent again." The assertion brought an incredulous smile to the girl's lips. However, she permitted herself to be led as far as the chapel entrance. On reaching the top of the marble steps, she turned suddenly in the direction taken by her parents. "O, papa!'" she cried, in a despairing tone, "you mean to deceive me; I will not see 5'ou again in the morning." Her pretty summer hat had fallen back upon her shoulders, throw- ing in relief her sweet, pathetic face. Mr. Hunt paused and glanced at her — his only child — who from ber babyhood had been his constant companion on the lone plantation in the woods of Grosse Tete. The thought smote him keenly; for a moment he wavered in his purpose; then, steeling his heart against emotion, and assuming an air of gayety, he gallantly waved his hand to her, saying, " I give you my word, darling! " This was sufficient; Lucile bowed in acknowledgment of ber father's promise and re-entered the chapel. 112 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. CHAPTER XI. INITIATION. l\/\ OTHER ALCHENAR conducted Lucile through the long, » ' * gloomv corridors to one of those spacious class-rooms, numerically divided into "cones." "Wait here, for a few minutes, my child," she said, on leaving her charge. < 'I am sure, you will not feel lost among so many girls." In fact, Lucile found herself surrounded by an astonish- ing number of young ladies, all seated at their desks, busily writing their French exercises. The appearance of the "new comer" was a most welcome distraction to most of the girls, for, notwithstanding the vigilance of an aged nun who walked the floor, they augmented her discomfort by whispering to each other and then staring her out of countenance. The poor child, who had never met with such rudeness before, felt her- self in a most uncomfortable predicament, and a feeling of loneliness seemed about overpowering her soul when the door opened and there entered the sweetest-faced creature she had overlooked upon. Hers was not the beauty of grace and form onl}', but of a loveliness of expression which radiated from a pure and sympathetic heart. Even beneath her homely garb, the faultless outlines of her figure were conspicuous, and her movements, though vivacious, were lull of charm and grace. The caineo-like beauty of her face was lit up with a smile which seemed to harmonize with her exquisitely chiseled lips and the brightness of her eyes. This fascinating nun walked softly and daintily across the apartment, and seated herself on the bench beside Lucile. INITIATION. 113 "Would you not like to come and stay with me at the 'Little Pensionnat?' " she asked, taking Lucile by the hand. "I should like it ever so much," replied the child, promptly, though she had not the remotest idea of the location of that Utopian Pensionnat. "Mother Alchenar tells me that you are twelve years of age; you will be the eldest of my little girls; but I shall expect you to give them good example. May I depend on your good conduct, Lucile?" The consciousness of her imperfections, struck the sensi- tive girl with palpable force, and she asked: "Are your little girls extraordinarily good?" "Well, as good as might be expected of well-bred children." •'Then give me a trial. I shall make no promises, though — because — I think I have been" — here there was a little break down in Lucile's voice — " Papa and Mamma have always allowed me to have my own way." " Indeed!" ejaculated the pretty nun, arching her pen- ciled eye-brows, " but you do not expect to be that much in- dulged here? You will have to submit to the convent rules." "O, I intend to do that!" answered Lucile, with warmth, "only I cannot promise you to be perfect. You may try me." Lucile passed an exceptional examination and, much to the annoyance of a set of older girls, she was promoted to the senior clas,ses, in both English and French. Her childish ap- pearance belied her age, and the progress she had attained in her studies was a rebuke to her class-mates, and, for a time, was the cause of envious and unfriendly feelings towards her. But the sweet and amiable disposition of their innocent rival, her artless ways and the unconsciousness of her own merits, soon divested them of their foolish pride and all-unworthy sen- timBnts. 114 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. Lucile possessed a natural talent for drawing; at home she had a portfolio full of crude but meritorious sketches; most of these were tame and insignificant bits of scenery, which her facile brush had clothed in artistic beauty. One of her drawings represented a log-cabin, with its accessories, the wood-pile, the rail fence and rustic stile. The smoke curling from the mud chimney and dissipating itself among the etched branches of leafless trees, was delineated with art and del - icacy worthy of an adept. Another, still more characteristic, was the trunk of a lofty cypress, clasped in the deadly embrace of the poison oak. The white form of a solitary crane, perched upon its apex, contrasted wierdl}' with a mass of billowy clouds piled as a back-ground. Lucile did not confine her talent to landscapes alone, she displayed much skill in drnwing figures, especially dramatic scenes from ancient history. Though lacking in necessary traits, Zulma posed for her models — even for celebrities like Cleopatra and the Queen of Sheba. On such occasions her young mistress fell upon her (nvu resources to supply de- ficiences, so sadly wanting in her patient but unlovely model. A week after Luciles arrival, Madam Doremus, the gen- tle mistress of the little Pensionnat, brought her to the studio that she miglit begin drawing lessons. A sco''e of large girls occupied seats around a broad table; they seemed pleasantl}' employed in congenial tasks. Drawing lessons were given at the noon recreation, consequently a rigid discipline was not enforced in this department. Whilst at work, the teacher permitted her pupils to exchange ideas relative to their studies, and even allowed their conversation to drift into harmless convent gossip. Therefore, when Lucile entered the class- room, she was confronted by a battery of beaming counten- ances and greeted by the following harassing exclamations: INITIATION. 115 "Why, theres Lucile!" " Not to begin drawing lessons, surely?" " Be off child, you are already too precoctious for one of your age." " The idea of such a little thing taking drawing lessons!" (To their teacher) — "Madam, we young ladies prote'st against such an imposition." "Madame Doremus, can't you provide dolls for the amusement of your babies during recess?" Poor Lucile was at loss how to take this reception. Were the girls taunting her, or merely jesting? Her changing color betrayed her annoyance, but she controlled her feelings and kept in good humor. She was reassured by the sight of the teacher who stood at the end of the long table sharpening a crayon for one of her scholars. To her joy, she proved to be her own kind teacher of the second English class. Madame Toury was one of those sterling characters that undesignedly inspire confidence. Her clear, blue eyes, f uU qf cheer and animation, reflected the goodness of her heart; and her magnificent forehead, white and smooth as parian marble, denoted firmness and extraordinary intelligence. She was of a medium size, but carried her head with an air of imperious- ness, strangely at variance with her general appearance, or the benevolence of her disposition. "Oh! is this my little ' Pussy Cat?' " she exclaimed, lay- ing down her pen-kuife and coming up to Lucile, "you did not tell me you were to learn drawing; have you taken lessons before?" "No, ma'am, but T have tried to sketch, and have made a great many pictures, already." " On your slate," stlggGBted one of the girls. 116 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. "Indeed, no, " replied Lucile, "Papa gave me the best of drawing paper and a box of paints, besides." There was a perceptible titter. " You think yourself .so smart! " replied one of the girls, leaning back on her chair and fixing her eyes on Lucile. "'Tis a pity you did not bring your chef d'oetivre for exhibi- tion! " Here Lucile's powers of endurance threatened to forsake her; she turned aside to hide the tears which suflfused her eyes. Madame Toury cast on the class a glance which none of them failed to interpret, and they silently fell to work. She then prepared a seat for Lucile, and kindly endeavored to dis- tract her mind from unpleasant thoughts. "What shall I give you for a model?" she said, taking up a large portfolio. " Come and look over these sketches. Here is a cute one — the head of a pussy cat. How cunning! Should you not like to try your hand on this? it is not hard to draw." "Anything you choose will suit me," replied Lucile, tak- ing up the model, "I think this very pretty and easy." After Lucile had been installed and had received instruc- tions how to proceed in tlie work allotted to her, Madame Toury walked across the room to attend to the wants of the rest of her class. The child applied herself with such dili- gence and expedition, that the masterful strokes of her crayon on the rough paper attracted the attention of her teacher, who, more than once, turned in wondering surprise in the direction whence they proceeded. B'ut she forbore disturbing her inter- esting pupil, though it cost her an effort to curb her curiosity and impatience to examine the result of progress made under INITIATION. 117 such headway. At hist Lucile heaved a little sigh and laid down her pencil. "Madame, I have finished," she said. "Will you come and see whether it is well done, or shall I bring it to you? " Her teacher walked to the desk; she stood for a moment like one struck dumb with surprise. "Dear child!" she exclaimed, "you are a born artist! Why, your sketch is as good as the model! you have even im- proved upon it! " "May we come and see? do, Madame Toury," pleaded several voices in a chorus. The sketch was handed around for inspection. To the teacher's surprise and pleasure, there was no trace either of envy, or of ill-feeling in the eulogies bestowed by the girls; all expressed their admiration and agreed that Lucile deserved a premium for her cleverness. "Now, Lucile," said Madame Toury, "you will not have time to begin work on another sketch, but you may choose a model for your next lesson. Here is a landscape, the picture of an old mill with the water tumbling merrily over the wheel. I am afraid it is too difficult; this oae is prettier." She placed before Lucile a small landscape — that of a rustic bridge spanning a stream of water. Tall trees on opposite banks, leaned across and overshadowed the bridge; a wild vine clambered to the topmost boughs and returned earthward in graceful and airy tendrils. Lucile scrutinized the drawing in silence ; presently her red lips began to quiver and two opal- escent tears rolled from her cheeks upon the paper before her. At the sight of her emotion. Madame Toury hastily removed the offending sketch from the desk. "Now, now, child, you are not compelled to work on this; I should have known it was too hard for such a little pussy as yourself." 118 ZULMA, A STORY OP THE OLD SOUTH. Lucile tried valiantly to overcome her weakness, but the bridge and its rural surroundings, had carried her back to dear, old Grosse Tete and to that sylvan spot, the summer re- sort of herself and parents, in the happy days of yore. It was here, too, that she and Zulma sought for the ripest May- pops and muscadines, and in spring-time, they tramped through its dewy paths, searching for the wild violets which lurked around in pleasant nooks. At tne sound of the bell, she arose and mechanically placed her drawing materials in their recept- acle. Neither her teacher or her class-mates ever discovered the cause of her sudden emotion, or the sadness of expression which seemed to have settled on her usually cheerful counten- ance. LETTERS FROM THE CONVENT. 119 CHAPTER XII. letters from the convent. Convent Sacred Heart, Nov. 28, 1860. Dear Papa and Mamma — Mother Alchenar has given me permission to write a little every day at the noon recess, so that I may have a long letter to send you on Fridays. I am getting over my home- sickness very nicely, I think. The ladies are so kind to me, I shouldn't wonder if I learned to love my new home. I give all my attention to my studies, be- cause I know the sooner I finish my education, the sooner I shall return home for good. I get very lonely at night, and love to stand by the dormatory windows to watch the boats. They are passing at all hours of the night — such magnificent things, Mamma, with the red light of the cinders trailing be- hind them. When they make a landing at the Convent, I make myself believe that you, Papa, are coming to see me. I wrote you a short letter last week; I hadn't the heart to write more. Dear Grosse Tete seems so much out of the way of boats, I'm afraid my letter will take a great, great while to reach you. Mamma, do you remember what a time you had trying to get me to write letters for exercises? I thought it mean of you to force me to write to people who had died long ago. I did not mind writing to that good Mr, Addison, who helped to make the Spectator so interesting; or to Mr. Davies, to tell him how hard I found his arithmetic; but I did hate to write to Mrs. Trollope, who made fun of us Americans. I see now, you were only preparing me for this separation, and I am thankful to you for all the pains you took to teach me. 120 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. In my first letter, I wrote that I was staying at the little Pensionnat, this is the home of the youngest girls at the Sacred Heart. We live in the rear of the long music house back of the Chapel. We are forty little girls in all, and one grown girl — a "Child of Mary" — who helps Madame Doremus keep us straight. We have a better time than the large Pen- sionnat. In cold weather we are allowed to stay in bed until breakfast time. Little Ada Saint Armand has left the infirm- ary. We love each other dearly. Madam Doiemus told us that her life was in constant danger from heart disease. She is not allowed to run about and romp, like the rest of us girls. Dearest ones, I am trying to be uood, so as to get a rib- bon at the next distribution of prizes. I do not find the Con- vent rules so hard to observe, except silence. When I first came, I was in the habit of speaking out loud at any time, just as we do at home. This used to set the girls to giggling. Once, I spoke out in the refectory. Madam Miller, who stays with us at meal times, turned upon me with a look of aston- ishment and rolled her eyes at me in a manner which fright ened me very much. The convent fare is so nice; it is a won- der to me how the Sisters continue to furnish us with so many good tilings. We have dessert every day, always of two kinds, fruit and pie or cake. On Fridays they give us pudding, which reminds me so much of Aunt Polly's "pig," only this is filled with dried prunes instead of peaches and apples like we have at home. Yesterday was promenade day, and we had a delightful walk to the woods. Before starting, they gave each of us a large piece of ginger-cake and a handful of pecans. These we ate on the way. The way to the woods is through an avenue of magnificent oaks and Lombardy poplars. It seemed over a LETTERS FROM THE CONVENT. 121 mile long, and it is as grand as it can be. The girls told me that they are sometimes allowed to take a ramble through the woods, but last evening we were not permitted to pass the big gate because we got there too late. But I put m}- head through the bars and sniffed the sweet odors of the dim, solemn wood. The familiar scene filled my heart with longings for home, and it seemed to me that I was nearer you at that moment than I had ever been since I came. While I was gazing at the grand old trees and grape-vines, I heard a kildee singing; the sound of its voice rang through the woods, and it sang as sweetly and as mournfully as the kildees of Grosse Tete. This was too much for my poor heart to bear, and I laid my head on the bars and cried most disgracefully. I am improving very fast in music. My teacher says it IS a pity I had not begun at an earlier age. But I do not re- gret the years I spent with yon^ instead of being here, only to learn music. The guitar is not as difficult to learn as the piano, and I have plenty time before me. I have been writing this letter, during recess, for nearly a week. You will find it long, my sweet ones; you will have the patience, I hope, to read it through. Poor Zulma will enjoy hearing you read it. Give my love to all my friends, and tell the servants I often think of them with kindness and love. Remember me to Uncle Dave and all the darkies. I wrote to grandpere last week. Let me know whether you fancy this sort of a journal. How I envy its lot! It shall fall into your hands, dear mamma, and come in contact with your sweet breath. I cover this page with kisses for you and papa. With much love, I remain your oion affectionate, LuciLE. 122 zulma, a story of the old south. Letter ii. Christmas Week, Dec. 29, 1860. Thank you, thank you, darling papa and mamma, for the box you sent me! Madame Doremus says you have sent me enough things to last six months. I cut the cake at dinner on Christmas day, and distributed it among the little girls. Our table looked like a wedding feast. I have never been to one, but just imagined it did Kiss grandpere for the oranges; they are the more appreciated because they were raised on the ©Id plantation. Tell grandmerp that I have not yet opened the jar of pre- serves, liut it is an object of attraction; they look so tempting through the glass; they are so transparent, we can see through and through the peaches. Sister Josephine and I are great friends. It was she who opened my box. I offered her some of the nice things, but she shook her head, and told me to "send them to the infir- mary instead." Her mind is bent on providing dainties for the sick girls. She hung the bunch of bananas in the kitchen pantry to ripen. You ought to see the refectory pantry! It is so crowded with boxes and hampers, there is no standing room left. Each boat that lands puts off a lot of boxes; with few exceptions, all the girls have received one for Christmas. I make it a duty to divide the contents of my box with those less fortunate than myself. Whenever I ofler them things, I try to make them believe that they do me a favor by accepting ; it is humiliation enough for them to know that they have been neglected. Poor little Ada was not remembered by any ot her friends, I filled a cornucopia with my finest and prettiest French can- dies and presented it to her. She was so delighted with the gift, that she began dancing all over the room; but the excite- LETTERS FROM THE CONVENT. 123 ment soon broke her down; she stopped verj' suddenly and pressed one of her hands over her little heart, saying: "It is jumping hard, Lucile." Her sweet lips had turned quite blue, and I was awfully afraid she was going to have one of her spells of heart disease. T thought the religious ceremonies during Christmas week so grand and touching. I became very pious, that is, I loved to go to the chapel to say my prayers. The altars are all magnificently decorated; at the foot of that of the Blessed Virgin is a waxen figure of the Infant Jesus Iving in a man- ger.' It stretches out its little hands as though begging to be taken out of its cold bed of straw. It looks so sweet and natural, it is hard for me to keep from doing it. Every evening since Christmas we have had some sort of entertainment. On Christmas night we had tableaux. I wish you had seen how lovely they were. The costumes were so strange and magnificent, it was hard to recognize the girls who took part in them; it was like seeing people in a dream. When they represented the different scenes in ' 'The Feast of Balthasar" I was struck dumb with admiration. I cannot tell you how grand and beautiful was that of the "Nativity." Then they showed us the "magic lantern." The Little Pensionnat and all the large girls were assembled in the first "cones." Mother Shannon and many of the ladies were pres- ent. At one end of the room was the apparatus; it reminded me of cannons I had seen in pictures. Mother Murphy was standing behind it, and I imagined she was going to shoot at us; this made me feel very uncomfortable. But, after a while, they brought in a large screen which they placed before the lantern, then, a brilliant light fell upon the white screen, followed by a beautiful picture of Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden. It was a pleasant surprise to me, for 1 had no idea of 124 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH, the effects produced by the magnifying glasses. Some of the representations were funny and made us laugh; others were very pretty, especiall}' those of the active volcanoes and "ships on fire." They showed us many historical pictures, about which Mother Shannon questioned us; I could have answered every time, but was too timid to do so. On other nights, we had plays and charades which were also very amusing. The one called "Behind Time, " was so funny, that we laughed during the whole performance. It was written by one of the nuns who is the glummest looking crea- ture you ever saw. It is a wonder to me how she managed to think of so many laughable things. She never laughs herself, and I reckon, never did, even when she was composing the piece. We had most fun on Saata Claus' night. We were once more seated in one of the large class-rooms in the middle of which were half a dozen long poles laying across the backs of chairs. Hundreds of stockings, tied in pairs and bulging out from top to toe, hung across these poles. When all was ready, one of the ladies began calling out the numbers; each girl went for her own stocking, but was forbidden to open it before permission was given. After the last number was called out, a signal was given for us to open and inspect the contents of the stockings. You should have heard the shouts and laugh- ter which followed. The stockings were filled with all sorts of things, fruit, candies, ashes, stones, hard boiled eggs, potatoes, dolls and pencils. Each article was wrapped up in a separate piece of paper. You may know with what impatience we tore open the parcels. Some of the girls had less than others, this was the cause of much dissatisfaction. I had nothing to com- plain of; besides a small volume of Lamartine's poems, I found a beautifully dressed doll. Ada, too, had a doll and many dtber pretty things, which she offered to divide with LETTERS FROM THE CONVENT. 125 those who had not been so well served. The child has strange notions; it so happened that both of her neighbors found a corn cob in their stockings; this attracted her attention. After opening all her parcels she looked around with an air of disap- pointment and said : "But — Santa Glaus forgot to give n?e a cob!' All the girls laughed and bee an throwing corn cobs in her lap, until she cried out: "Don't — I want just one." Everybody here loves her and allows her to have her own way. Our holidays are nearly ended, and I shall never forget my first Christmas at the Sacred Heart. Everything was so new ; the impressions made are deep and will never be effaced from my memory. I have seen so much since 1 left home, that my whole life seems like a year, compared with these last weeks. I am learning to love my new home and the kind ladies. It is much better that I should, since it is necessary for me to stay here until I finish my education; otherwise, I would be too miserable to learn much. But do not imagine I am forgetting you my darling ones. I have you in my mind, constantly; only, the thought of you does not cause me as much unhappi- ness, as when I first came. I think of you with the fond hope, that in a few years, I shall return to 3'ou, never more to leave you. Your affectionate daughter, LUCILE. 126 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. Letter III — Sad Tidings. Jan. 3, 1861. mamma, little Ada is dead! This will be sad news to you; goodness knows it is hard enough for me to write about. Although we all knew she had heart disease, and was, at any time, in danger of death, we lived in hopes that she would have been spared us many years to come. The suddenness of her death was a great shock to me, almost as much so as was poor little Katie Dawsey's ending. This is the second time I have lost the ones 1 loved. We had passed such a pleasant Christmas week. Ever)' evening the ladies got up some kind of entertainment for our benefit. Poor little Ada seemed to enjoy them more than any one else. She went wild over the tableaux, and would stand upon the benches and clap her hands, each time the bell rang for the curtain to rise. She seemed to be making the most of the life so nearly ended. On the morning of the 31st she had an attack of the palpitation during recess. Madame Doremus had her taken to the infirmary. As soon as she felt better, she begged to be allowed to return to the little Pensionnat,but the doctor would not hear of it. There were half a dozen patients beside Ada, in the infirmary. As it was New Year's eve, and they were only sick from cold. Sister Bondreau gave them permission to play games during the night recreation. They amused themselves playing one called "mad-dog," which is very noisy and exciting. Ada was forbidden to join them, but she sat up in bed and watched them chasing each other around the room. • Whenever they came near her bed, she would scream and jump next to the wall. This made her so nervous, that she was taken with another attack of the palpi- tation. It was some time before her companions noticed her condition; as soon as they did, they ran out to inform the LETTERS FROM THE CONVENT. 127 sister-infirmarian, who immediately sent for Madame Doremus. We were all at play and were having a gay time, when one of the sisters came in and beckoned to her. Madame Doremus left us in charge of Celeste, as she always does on leaving. We thought nothing of her absence, and continued our chatting and romping. In a short while, Madame Doremus returned, when she opened the door, I looked around, as a person will naturally do on anyone's entrance. But, mamma! I saw something in her looks which made my heart stop beating. She stood in the half open door and the light fell directly in her face; it was as white as a sheet! I think I was the first to notice this, or to suspect that something dreadful had happened. I stood up and waved my hand to silence the children; it took them some time to understand what I wanted. By degrees, they stopped talking and turned in the direction where Madame Doremus was standing with her hand still resting upon the door-knob. When she spoke, her voice was so unnatural that I would not have recognized it. "Children," she said, "I have come to announce to you that one of your companions — has just left you — and is now an angel in Paradise." When she said this, I cried out: "Is it Ada!" "Yes, " answered Madame Doremus; "the dear child has done with life's sufferings; her little heart is, at length, at rest, and her pure spirit has found its true home." The children stared at each other as though they had not understood the meaning of her words. One of the little girls looked up in mj face and asked: "What is the matter with Ada, Lucile?" I burst into tears. We all cried for Ada, for she was the most loveable child I had ever known. After a while, Madame Doremus returned to her desk and called us around her. The first thing we noticed was little Ada's chair, 128 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. in which she used to sit and peep at ns from behind her book. Those dear, laus;hing eyes, we shall never see again! After we were all seated, Madame Doreraus began telling lis about Ada. She was still alive and conscious of her teacher's pres- ence, for she begged with gasping breath to be carried to her own little bed. She expired repeating after Madame Doremus these dying words: "Little Jesus, receive my soul." We sat there for a long time crying and listening to the beautiful things Madame Doremus told us about heaven, and the love of Jesus for little children. Her words consoled us for the loss of Ada; for, after all, God knew what was best for her. She was a lovely orphan, and He removed her from earth while her soul was without blemish. Ours was a sad New Year's day! The world outside was cold and dreary, and within it was still more gloomy. The next mornmg after Ada's death, I was permitted to accom- pany some of the older girls who went to look upon her for the last time. They had laid her out on one of the little cots in one of the rooms adjoining the infirmary. She was beauti- fully dressed, and a wreath of white roses lay oo her dark curls. There was a sweet smile on her lips; she looked as though she was only sleeping and having a pleasant dream. I thought her even prettier than when alive, and more childish in appearance. .Sister B — told us, it is supposed that the soul, on leaving the body, assumes its likeness; only, it is di- vested of all traces of age and human imfirmities, and is clothed with eternal youth. This is a very sweet and consoling belief, mamma; if it be true, we shall recognize each other in heaven. They had crossed little Ada's hands very naturally over the heart which had been the cause of so much annoyance and suf- fering to her. I had often seen them in that position, but never %o pencefully and permanently at rest. Ada's body was LETTERS VROM THE CONVENT. 129 to be placed in the large tomb in the convent cemetery. None of the girls were allowed to attend the burial, as the weather was very cold, and they started in a drizzling rain. The fun- eral took place late in the evening. Tt was awfully sad to see them passing with poor little Ada. The priest and the nuns formed a dreary procession which filled my heart with grief and fear. I thought of the precious child being laid into that lonely tomb and left there alone — she who was so full of life and so fond of sunshine! O mamma! it is tefrible to die away from home! Come and see me, my dear papa; I am so lonely. Your loving, L. I 130 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE NEW SOUTH. CHAPTER XIII. HOME AGAIN. /~\N a glorious afternoon, near the close of August, a hand- ^-^ some family carriage rumbled merrily along the cool, shady banks of Grosse Tete. Lucile Hunt, on her way home, watched with beaming eyes, every feature of the familiar scene The emerald waters of the bayou, flashing from behind the dark green foliage of trees, seemed to her far more inter- esting than even the great Mississippi, sweeping pompously down to meet the ocean. The air was heavy with the fragrance of maturing vegetation. The twitter of birds, mingled with the harsh caw-caw of exultant crows, winging their flight across the corn-fields; and somewhere beneath the azure sky, the plaintive call of the partridge, fell to earth in undulating strains. At a certain turn of the route, the spirited greys, with tossing heads and quickened speed plunged beneath the ancient oaks and locusts lining the roadside on the Hunt plan- tation. Lucile now beheld at a distance a well known figure speeding with outstretched arms to welcome her. "Hole on dere, Unc' Dave!" cried the breathless Zulma. "Stop dat carriage tell 1 hitch on." But the surly Jehu shook the reins and snapped his whip in her face. "You knowed de way clean tur yere, did you? Well, you kin trot back," was his ungallant reply. "Check your horses, Dave," interposed his master, "and ofive her time to climb on behind." HOME AGAIN. 131 "How you come on, little mistis?" exclaimed Zulma, in- troducing herself through the opening and bending over to scrutinize the lovely face within. "I am well, thank you, Zulma, and so glad to see you again." "T'ank de Lawd, you come back! I was on t'orns and cockle-burrs 'bout you ever sense day befo' yisterday. " •'Indeed!" cried Lucile, pressing warmly the slave's coarse, black fingers; "and what made you feel so uncomfortable about me, I wonder?" "Didn't I go an' dream de Quitman blowded up wid you an' yo' pa?" "Oh my!" exclaimed Lucile laughing merrily; "you see for yourself how groundless were your fears. Oh dear!" continued she, her eyes sparkling with animation, "there's the old bridge and the "Wisteria vines still clinging to the cotton-woods." "An' deres de Injins!" added Zulma. "I spect dey bin dancin' juba, little mistis." "How's that?" "Nobody been prayin' 'm out ovpergitory, sense you lef." "Why Zulma," replied Lucile with seeming concern, "you should have prayed for them while I was away!" "Who, me? I let 'm frizzle, yes." The distance from this picturesque bridge to the next, was a little over a quarter of a mile; it spanned "Back Creek," a bayou which ran into Grosse Tete at the high point upon which the new residence bad been erected. The prospect be- tween the two bridges was entirely intercepted by the trees which lined the roadside. The public road, cut within the bed of this bayou, formed a considerable slope towards the bridge, and a perpendicular embankment flanked it all the way up the declivity. Hence, the ascent of the carriage was gradual. 132 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH, Lucile, in her anxiety to catch a glimpse of her mother, had directed her undivided attention towards the old home which came in view just as the horses reached the level road. But alas! time had despoiled it of its homel}' charms, and hung about it an air of forlornness which struck her senses with dis- may. The old cabin, shrunken in size, seemed to have re- treated in conscious humility behind the trees and shrubbery which now rioted in front of it, Lucile was disturbed by pain- ful and conflicting emotions. Was it possible that her heart had grown callous, or that the elegance of her late residence and its refining atmosphere, had created a distaste for this humble domicile, or diminished her former attachment to a spot teeming with memories of her happy childhood? Her better nature instantly revolted against the bare idea, and her throb- bing heart was overwhelmed by feelings of tenderness and re- morse. ''You's on de wrong trac', little mistis," exclaimed Zulraa, who had been observing with keen relish the natural mistake made by Lucile. Look over yonder !"«> The girl was totally unprepared for the sight which met her e3^es as she turned in the direction indicated. Several times, during her absence from home, she had asked concern- ing the progress of the new house, but her parents had ignored her questions, and she took it for granted that for some good cause, the work upon it had been suspended. Her surprise and pleasure were therefore unbounded, when she beheld the elegantly finished mansion standing in the place of the nonde- script building she had left only eight months before. The carriage turned from the public road into a wide avenue of young chinatrees. The handsome edifice, with its graceful white columns, now peered from between the trees like an airy palace created by the wand of enchantment. So thought HOME AGAIN. 133 Lucile as she gazed upon it with unfeigned admiration and surprise; she seemed bewildered and unable to realize that this magnificent home was destined to replace their former puny habitation. These pleasant thoughts were suddenly in- terrupted by the appearance of her mother, who, with a num- ber of her friends, hastened to welcome her. Was ever human heart overpowered by emotions as sweetly blended as that of Lucile, as she viewed through her tears, such love and beauty! "How could you have finished it so exquisitely?" she questioned ; ' 'how could you coax the plants to grow so tall and luxuriantly, during so short a time?" "Love and a desire to surprise you, my darling, emulrted our ambition and inspired the flowers to grow;" replied her father, gazing tenderly into her sweet, expressive countenance. "It will take me a lifetime to repay you," she whispered, passing her hand caressingly through his arm. As the happy party sauntered up the gravel walk, Lucile broke into increasing exclamations of delight at every fresh object falling unexpectedlv beneath her notice. "Yon brought the ferns from the woods. I know, mamma;'' she exclaimed, fingering the graceful fronds. "I wonder how they like it here, among these fine fiowers. I declare, here are real century plants like the ones in the convent pasture; and these are hydiangeas, tiger lilies and dahlias. You see mamma, I've been studying botany. What elegant steps!" she con- tinued, running up the newly painted flight. "Oh the magnifi- cent hall and pretty furniture! why this is perfectly beautiful, papa, and is a paradise. " She turned to her mother, her cheeks glowing with excitement; "we shall be as happy here, mamma, as we were in our old cabin over there." But the sentiment sounded like treason to the sensitive and impulsive girl. She threw herself in her mother's armSj exclaiming : ' 'That would 134 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. be impossible, we can never forget the liappy time we had there, never, never!" "And yon are ready to cry over the crazy old cabin, in- stead of thanking your stars that you're out of it;" replied Nannie Dawsey, unclasping her arms and leading her across the hall into a cozy bedroom which the girl announced to her was her "very own." As they entered, a soft breeze, freighted with the odor of the Chinese jasmine crept beneath the rustling curtains and wafted her a silent welcome. Besides a dainty set of cottage bedroom furniture, there were rockers, easy-chairs and a luxu- rious lounge; there were books, pictures and flowers. Once again Lucile was seized with rapturous delight, and under necessity of throwing herself mto her mother's arms to smother her with kisses. There was so much to say, to see and admire, it took Lucile an hour to divest herself of her dusty garments and don the prett}' lawn her mother had prepared for her. After every apartment had been visited, Mrs. Hunt in- vited Lucile's guests into the spacious dining-room, where an elaborate lunch was served, and where they lingered until the time had come to sav "ff rccolr.'' The sweet recollection of this happy ev^ening clung to Lucile as the fragrance of a rose clings to the leaves of a book in which it has been pressed. "I am going to Livonia to attend a meeting of Vestry- men," said Mr. Hunt, one evening to his wife; "if you and Lucile feel disposed to make a call, I shall order the carriage instead of the buggy." "That will be nice!" exclaimed Lucile, inserting a book- mark between the leaves of one of Longfellow's poems. "Hia- HOME AGAIN. 135 watha can well atford to tarry with Minnehaha on 'their pleasant journey homeward,' until our return. Shall we go mamma?" "Yes, since you have already settled the question," an- swered her mother smiling. "Where do you intend stopping, mamma?" "At the Gresham's, I think.'" "0, I am so* glad, it is a delightful place to visit. I must wear my best, mustn't I?"' asked Lucile rising and looking m- quiringly at her mother. They are such stylish people." "You have nothing finer than your white swiss; you may give a finishing touch by tucking a rose in your belt." And a lovely picture she made a half an hour later, as she walked to the gate where the carriage stood waiting. The sott folds of her snowy gown, undisguised by either puff or flounce, fell gracefully to the top of her tiny boots. Her cheeks, shaded by a wide-brimmed leghorn, rivaled in delicacy of coloring the velvety cabbage-rose, she repeatedly raised to her lips, "Dese yere hawses gittin' so stuck up," remarked Dave, pulling and twitching at the reins; "'fore long, dey won't want ter titch de ground." "No wonder TTncle, they are such beauties," exclaimed Lucile, walking around them and gazing with eyes full of ad- miration. "I like to see them paw the earth like that, and put on their airs!" ' 'Sense yo' paw went an' bought 'em dese yere shimn' harnesses, dey swell up fit to buss!" continued he, eyeing his team with feigned vindicativeness. "Do they indeed!" ejaculated Lucile, with a half incredu- lous air, ' 'You give them too much oats and corn. Uncle. " 136 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. The negro burst into a hearty fit of laughter; "go 'long chile, its de debbil in 'em, yes; dey ready dis minute to break into a reg'ler stampede, jes' outter debbilment. " "I shouldn't care if they did, under papa's management; they would have to tow the mark, eh Uncle Dave? " The okl darkie groaned in response; his young mistress had inadvertently pricked at some tender spot in the regions of his heart. After the family had been seated, Mr. Hunt collected the reins and signified his desire to drive. Conscious of the mas- terly hand which was to guide and control them, the high stepping pair arched their glossy necks and nodded with sup- pressed eagerness. At the word of command, they started with a bound, and skimmed along with a fleetness and uni- formity of motion which elicited the admiration of all who be- held them. Away, and awa}^, they sped; past corn-fields, where the harvesters bobbing in and out of the golden ripple, resembled a flock of crows pilfering the planters' grain. Past loof-houses enclosed by primitive fences, upon which a crowd of little darkies perched, bare-legged and hatless, enjoying, like Salo- manders, the streaming sunlight. Past neat cottages and dwellings where thrift and taste were manifested. The air around was redolent with the fragrance of flowers and new mown hay. In every cotton-field, the slaves, like a band of children in a garden of roses, plucked with flyiug fingers the flaky staple. Dave surveyed in silence, the snowy fields and busy laborers; he was in a ruminating mood and gave vent to his reflections in the following observation: "YoM kin sho' tell we'n day's a hard marstar on a place wen you see niggars goin' on at dat dead rate nebber noticin' HOME AGAIN. 137 nuffin' 'roim' em, you know day got dare two 'unded poun' ter pick or day 'unded lashes to git." "lam glad that's not the rule on our place," remarked Lucile. "We doz de bes' we know how," continued Dave; "an' yo' paw see fur hissef he's takin' de shine offer dem's dat's runnin' day niggars tur death squizzin' work out ter em." At Livonia, Mr. Hunt resigned the reins. "You will find them easy to manage now," he said to the driver. "Let them trot comfortably the rest of the way." "Brier Hose" plantation extended nearly a mile along the banks of Grosse Tete. It was a lovelj' place ; in every corner of the picturesque rail-fence, a rosebush clambered and surged over, strewing the grassy roadside with their creamy petals. A grand and elegant mansion, with deep galleries and long, white colonnade, glittered like a modern chateau, at the extremity of a magnificent grove. The immense ya,Td and parterre which surrounded the building, presented an assemblage of trees, mingling in harmonious outlines, their rich and varied foliage. There were hospitable cedars, the nursery of the mockingbirds; and live-oaks, with the parasitic moss drooping in grey festoons from their ancient boughs. Magnificent weeping-willows trailed their emerald skirts upon the sward. Great Lombardy pop- lars, as if in disdain, gathered their limbs about them and proudly towered above the rest. In and out, between the patches of shade and sunshine, were flower-beds, rustic seats and summer houses. A bevy of pretty children ran with their hoops and shuttle-cocks, to meet the visitors in the central alley and offered, with winsome grace, their rosy lips to be kissed. 138 ZULMA, A STORY OP THE OLD SOUTH. Corine Gresliam, a girl with intellectual countenance and a perfect specimen of blonde beauty, greeted Lucile and her mother with cordiality and that self-possession which belong to children of distinguished Southern families. Mrs. Gresham herself was a beautiful woman, full of wit and vivacity; a charming hostess and a great favorite in society. The contrast between the two women was evident; but the dash and brilliancy which suited so well the style of the woman of the world, only served to accentuate the refined and unobstrusive beauty of the gentle Creole, Nor did the in- compatibility of their disposition interfere with their friendly intercourse; the two drifted into pleasant converse, touching upon a v.ariety of subjects, social and domestic, then upon the literature of the day, and lastly, the momentous war question. Here they stood upon common grounds and discussed it with all the warmth and enthusiasm of Southern patriots. In the meantime, Corine had invited Lucile for a ramble over the premises. As they stepped into the pasture, a superb peacock flew from a neighboring shrub to a marble statue of Flora, upon whose head it perched and flaunted its starry train as if inviting the admiration of the two girls. "How many peafowls have you now?" asked Lucile gazing upon it with childish delight and interest. "Only three; you see, I can hardly indulge in the luxury of serving up to my friends a dish of peacocks' tongues. " "But you miglit do the next thing to that, Corine, bake them a pie made of the tongues of mocking birds; the place is alive with them." "Oh you cannibal!" laughed Corine, "would you really partake of such a feast. " "I think I would enjoy their warblings better," answered Lucile, somewhat confused. HOME AGAIN. 139 "And we are to be treated to a rausicale without the ask- ing," answered Corine, peeping into the branches of a laburnum whence proceeded the preluding notes of a mocker. "Listen! 'Tis a wonder to me, how their little heads can hold such a re. pertoire. The airy singer began, first, by mimmicking the garrulous tree martin, then, the twitter of a gossiping swallow. Suddenly, its little throat collapsed, bringing forth the low, faint cry of a distressed chick. So pitiful and natural is the imitation, it is said, it often arouses the maternal alarm of the mother hen, especially when it is followed by the equally per- fect and threatening cry of the hawk. Next, it burst into the triumphant song of a lark, cleaving its way through a summer sky. It finished off with a gush of glee; then, a warble, dwind- ling down into a rippling murmur, learned from a woodland orchestra. Gently, softly, the quivering notes expired — mourn- ful as the last chords Love sweeps across the strings of a broken heart. "My!" exclaimed Lucile, "wasn't that beautiful?" "That must have been a Jennie Lind among the birds," replied Corme. "We Louisianans ought to be proud of the tribe — by the way, how are you getting along with your music?" "Finely; I know all my scales and can play the '■Maiden's Prayer,' " answered Lucile laughing; "that's one of our stand- ards at the convent." ' 'It is ? And which is next in order in your musical progress?" asked the girl passing her arms around her friend's waist, and leading her among the blooming geraniums and heliotropes. "The 'Monastery Bells,' I think." "Has your father bought you a piano yet?" "No, for there was no occasion for it; on my last birth- day, my grandfather made me a present of a fine Knabe." 140 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. "How old are you, Lucile? Please don't think me over- curious." "I was thirteen last June." "You seem wise beyond your years; I wonder why?" "I do not think I am, Corine, though I imagine I am not as childish in my ways as I ought to be ; that's because I have been so much with grown people. But I am not as wise as you are, I am sure;" smiled Lucile looking up archly into the lovely countenance before her. "But I am in my fifteenth year; I am almost grown, you see. You will not have a sweetheart to send to the war will you?" "0 goodness, no! I am nothing but a child, and never think of such things." "But you are so sweet and pretty, Lucile; the boys can- not help falling in love with 3'ou." The roses flattered prettily on the che«ks of the coy, art- less girl. "Let us talk about the war;" she answered in des- peration. "Is your father a LTnion man or a Secessionist?" "A Secessionist, by all means; you don't expect him to side with the Yankees, I hop^? Why, isn't i/oin- father a Se- cessionist?" she asked with an air of astonishment. "My father's sympathies are with the Southern people, but he — ^is a — Union man. " "My gracious! you astound me\ what can be his reasons for advocating such unpatriotic sentiments?" "Papa's are not 'unpatriotic sentiments,' Corine; from the first, he opposed Secession and the war. He had good and just reasons for doing so." "I am surprised," answered Corine, with a toss of her beautiful blonde head, "that a man of Mr. Hunt's sense and education should labor under such false impressions." HOME AGAIN. 141 "I have faith in my father's judgment," answered Lucile, with heightened color; "he understood why it was best for the South to keep from breaking the Union, and from fighting against the old flag. " "Indeed! and I can't see how a Southern man could enter- tain respect for the striped old thing which has been for so many years the symbol of his oppression. Have we not in ex- change, that Bonnie Blue Flag, for which we are all willing to lay down oar lives? But Lucile, I cannot believe that you and your mother think and feel as your father does. " "Mamma and I are great Rebels." "Thank God the heart of every Southern woman beats for Dixie!" cried Corine with warmth. "Here comes Grace with a glass of lemonade, let us drink to the success of our Cause, Lucile." Corine tilted the glass over her shapely nose. "I have drained the bumper to the triumph of our Confederacy. I be- lieve we are in the right, and that we will gain our Cause." "Suppose we are defeated" she resumed, after waiting until the servant girl was out of hearing; "do you know what will be the consequences, Lucile?" "I am afraid," replied Lucile reflectiugly, "we will find ourselves in an awful condition This I judge from what I know of history. Nations who lose their Cause, find very little mercy in their conquerors. " "If we are beaten, the Yankees are going to set our slaves free — a greater misfortune could not belall us;" sighed Corine, spreading on her knees, her shell-tintedfingers. "The poor negroes, I am sure, wouldn't tliankXho, Yankees for taking them away from their masters and comfortable quarters!" exclaimed Lucile, in a voice full of indignation and contempt. 142 ZULMA, A STORY_OP THE NEW SOUTH. "There, you are mistaken, my dear; it is said that if the negroes had so much as an Inkling of what Lincoln intends doing for them, they would all rise against their masters and help the Yankees exterminate them.'' "Why, Corine, they would do no such thing! they think too much of their masters to do them such dreadful harm." "Then, you little know the true state of things in your own country. I have often heard papa and his friends talk of secret plans for general insurrection among the slaves, and how they have been discovered in time to save us from fearful massacres!" "Please don't tell me about them," cried Lucile with a look of horror. "It is too dreadful to think of, and I cannot believe that the negroes would do it." "Well, I hardly believe yours or ours would attempt to cut our throats, because we are kind to our slaves. But they wouldn't hesitate to do it on plantations where they are cruelly treated. " "And I wouldn't blame them for doing it," said Lucile, rising from her seat. "Let's not talk about this any more. It makes me feel bad." Corine laughed merrily. "I am not as susceptible as you; I have so often heard the subject discussed. But come, I shall sing you a war song to chase away all unpleasant impressions." The girls found their mothers in the parterre gathering a bouquet of asters and carnations. They were chatting quite merrily. "Mamma is having a better time than I," thought Lucile, as she contemplated the smiling countenj^nces of the elder friends. ECHOES PROM THE WAR. 143 CHAPTER XIV. ECHOES PROM THE WAR. THE opening of the year '62 was one sadly unpropitious to the young Confederacy; its ensuing months brought forth a number of unforeseen calamities. The abandonment of Columbus and New Madrid, the capture of Fort Donelson and Island Number Ten, were among the disasters preceding the fall of New Orleans. They threatened to annihilate the hopes engendered on the plains of Manassas, and to destroy the pres- tige which had hitherto sustained the Southern armies in the unequal conflict in defense of their firesides and political rights. But the South was not to be daunted, even by such overwhelming reverses; her wise and intelligent leaders and staunch defenders stood their ground, until fortune once again turned towards them her smiling countenance. When the tocsin of war first sounded, summoning all loyal Southerners to the muster roll, a number of Pointe Cou- pee's patriots, too impatient to wait for home companies, left the parish to join organized regiments marching to the front. They were eager to meet the enemy at the threshold, and to share the brunt of the battle with those who, in a few months, were to secure political freedom for the South. Girding on their swords, they went forward, marching under the folds of the new-born banner, to the rescue of Tennessee and Kentucky. The people's confidence and assumption lasted until sub- sequent events warned them of the gravity of the responsibili- ties they had shouldered. They were rudely awakened from their dream of "sixty-day campaign." The elated armies that inarched on to Richmond to compel the Government to redress 144 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. their wrongs, and force a recognition of the sovereignty of the Confederate States, had met with a rebuff which gave a severe shock to their enthusiasm, and convinced them of the magni- tude of their undertaking. That brief and brilliant campaign they had foreseen in the strength of their heroic faith, had de- veloped into a stubborn war, in which success was to be wrested only from desperate ventures and unflagging persever- ance. The South had no foreign resources to fall upon, from which to recruit her armies. When the enemy's withering guns thinned out the serried ranks, no plundering hirelings were pressed forward to fill them. In, answer to the country's call, men of illustrious birth and of the best bone and sinew, promptly closed the broken columns of her armies. Lucile had left the convent a few weeks previous to the capture of New Orleans. On her return home, she was greatly surprised at the condition of aflfairs, and the wonderful devel- opment of events during the time of her absence. Whilst at the convent, rumors from the seat of war had reached her at long intervals and in faint echoes. She knew that at Sumter had occurred the denouement ot that long-pending sectional issue which precipitated the country into a bloody conflict. The announcement of one great victory, at Bull Run, rejoiced her heart, and the knowledge that the Confederate troops were marching on to Washington, was one which kept her in a com- fortable frame of mind, until she heard that Faragut had threatened the batteries below New Orleans, She found the people at home wholly absorbed m the subject which had be- come of such vital importance to the country. A new com- pany was being organized, and preparations for defraying the expenses of its equipment were undertaken by the ladies of Grosse Tete. ECHOES PROM THE WAR. 145 Mrs. Gresham, one of the most patriotic and influential personages of that vicinit}', had generously assumed responsi- bilities, by placing herself at the head of the enterprise. She called upon Mrs. Hunt one evening to solicit her aid. To her chagrin, the amiable mistress of " Highland" was absent on a visit to her venerable parents of False River. But she was pleasantl}' entertained by the sweet and intelligent Lucile, to whom she explained her mission, and the plan she had so judi- ciously prepared. She found in her young friend an enthusi- astic ally. "Now, Lucile," said the lady, after the subject had been thoroughl}^ discussed, "get your guitar and let me hear some of 5'our best songs, that I may be able to decide what part of this programme I shall assign to you." Lucile arose with cheerful alacrity and brought her in- strument out on the gallery, where they had just taken their seats. A soft breeze, ladened with the odor of summer flow- ers, fanned their cheeks and dallied with the tendrils of a clematis vine running over the balustrade. In the parterre below, a pair of humming birds glanced like minature rain- bows among the lilies and petunias. " Do you like Scotch songs?" asked Lucile, passing her delicate fingers across the strings of her guitar, and casting a timid glance at the aristocratic personage sitting in judgment over her. "I admire them above all others; sing ' Mary of Argyle, ' 'tis my favorite." Never was prelude sweeter or more pathetic, than that elicited by the light, magnetic touch of the unconsciously gifted performer. Sweeter words were never sung by a more melodious voice. 146 ZULMA, A STORY OF ,THE OLD SOUTH. "I have heard the mavis singing Her love song to the morn; I have seen the dewdrop clinging To the rose just newly born." Mrs. Gresham sat motionless, listening with rapt atten- tion. " Dear child! it is a treat to hear you sing !" she exclaimed, as soon as Lucile had struck the last chord of the beautiful aria. " You sing like the mavis mentioned in the song, or as if your soul had been tuned to the sentiments therein ex- pressed.." "Do I? It is because [I love music so dearly, Mrs. Gresham; it' inspires me. " ' ' You sing so charmingly, ma chere, I shall call upon you to sing the solo in the ' Bonnie Blue Flag, ' at the presenta- tion of our banner." Lucile passed her hands nervously across the strings of the guitar, and she dropped her graceful head very low, to hide the rushing tide she felt mouniing to her cheeks. " There is nothing I would not do for our dear Confeder- acy," she said. " Put me to any test but this, Mrs. Gresham; I could never sing, alone, before a public audience ; I shall break down and spoil the whole performance." The lady bit her lips with ill-repressed vexation. "I know half a dozen girls aspiring to the roll I have offered you, Lucile." " Then, why not give it to one of those?" asked she, with unwonted eagerness. " Because none of them have suitable voices," answered the visitor, rather coolly. ECHOES PROM THE WAR. 147 "Dear Mrs. Gresham," said Lucile, -with a pained ex- pression in her eyes, "please do not think unkindly of me for refusing to sing; but I am thinking — I could easily get some- one to sing that solo; a person with a very good voice, clear and melodeous — one exactly suited for the occasion. " "Indeed!" ejaculated Mrs. Gresham, in an incredulous tone; " who can that be?" "An acquaintance — a music pupil of mine. She is to be here this evening to take a lesson. If you wait until she comes, I shall ask her to smg for you." The music pupil arrived in due time and Lucile presented her to Mrs. Gresham — Nannie Dawsey. There was something uncommonly attractive about the young girl. The thick, brown ringlets clustering around her pretty face, gave her a pert, boyish appearance, very much in keeping with her bright eyes, open countenance, and the admirable applomh of her general deportment. As soon as she was seated she turned to Lucile and said: "I got a letter from Tom last night, Lucile, I have it in my pocket now," she explained, tapping on the spot where the precious epistle lay concealed; "I brought it for you to read; it is as rich »s a pound-cake." " What does he write about, Nannie?" asked Lucile, smiling; "something very interesting, I judge, by your looks. " " He tells all about the Confederates evacuating Corinth. You haven't heard about that, I'm sure." "Of course I have." " But you haven't read the particulars. Tom writes all about the dreadful times they've had since leaving Montery, " answered Nannie, drawing out the letter. "The water 'round that country is so scarce, and our poor boys suffered so much 148 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. from thirst, that they got to dreaming of the nice, cool water they used to have at home. They had ever so much sickness besides; and the Yankees at their heels, clear to Corinth. That terrible old Halleck followed them up, never giving them time to breathe, until he actually cornered them, and posted his guns within a thousand yards of our batteries. Gracious me! how our boys would have been peppered, if our Beaure- gard hadn't had the sense to slip out of that trap! Here's what Tom says about it." Forthwith, and without an}' encouragement, Nannie pro- ceeded to read her brother's description of Beauregard's noted feat. "Wasn't that a dandy move, though?" asked she, re- folding her letter, and looking straight at Mrs. Gresham. ' 'No other general but our Beauregard could have done it!" "Even our enemies admit," remarked Mrs. Gresham, that this bold and admirably conducted retreat was a crushing disappointment to the Federals. The escape of that army, without bloodshed, was equal to a victory." "Are you an admirer of Beauregard, ma'am?" abruptly asked Nannie, fixing her bright eyes on the lady's astonished visage. ' 'General Beauregard has been singularly devoted to" our Cause," replied Mrs. Gresham, with a smile; " he commanded the troops that won our first victory. I thmk all Southerners should love and admire him for his brave and chivalric con- duct, as well as for the genius he has displayed in managing our armies." "lam glad you think so well of him ma'am; and I'm sorry my brother is no longer under his command. Poor Tom 18 in Vicksburg, now. He says he's in for good, and expects to dine off of many a rat and mule, before the war comes to an end." ECHOES FROM THE WAR. 149 The night of the entertainment was heralded by a full moon. At the hour of rising, dense and forboding clouds had banked themselves against the horizon, but the queen of night soon extricated herself from these vapory folds and pro- ceeded with majestic serenity on her journey towards the zenith. On that particular night, she symbolized that sublime faith which had hitherto sustained the Southern people in their perilous careei-. The clouds, which a few months previous had darkened their political horizon, had since rolled by, and the star of Fortune had arisen to guide them in their struggles for Independence. On Grosse Tete, the interminable fields of corn and cotton were flooded with soft, mellow light. The venerable trees leaning along the banks of the bayou, were made resplendent with the moon beams, and they quivered like gems, here and there, on the surface of the shadowy water. The little village of Livonia presen ted a scene of bustle and activity never witnessed before. The roadside m the vicinity of the hall, was lined with vehicles of all sizes and descriptions, from the old-time superanuated barouches, to the stylish and elegant carriages of Grosse Tete's magnates. The sable drivers of princely equipages stood grumbling at the heads of their master's thousand-dollar teams, which chaffed and fretted at their bits, and shook with , impatience their silver mounted harness. On the moon-lit grounds, were booths fabricated with the tropical palmetto, and decorated with the snowy blossoms of the cape-jasmine. These were presided over by dark-eyed beauties, who dispensed with grace and brilliant repartee. Confederate wares and dainties. Herfi were served it>. porcelain and cut glass, corn and potato coffee, home-made sj'rups and wines. Great pyramids of Con- federate cake fell in tempting morsels under the carver's knife. 150 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. Heaped in crj^stal stands and magnificent punch-bowls, were delicious peaches floating in cream. The tempting fragrance of gumho-file drifting from huge pots, filled the air with gas- tronomic invitations. Beauty and youth had met in the bril- liantly lighted hall, and the hot breath of patriotism had swept asunder every social barrier. The elite of society had clasped hands with their humbler sisterhood, and combined their zeal and talent in the furtherance of the Cause, so dear to every heart in the Southland. The performance was opened with the patriotic song of "Dixie," which was, at that time, all the rage in the Southern States. Ttie stanzas were sung by one of the company. He was joined in the chorus by a goodly number of his "comrades in grey," a circumstance which tended to en- hance the rendition of it, and which aroused the audience to an outburst of prolonged and enthusiastic cheers. It is use- less to go into details in describing the performance that night. Each roll in the programme, from the overture to the last tableau, was carried out with exquisite taste and perfection. Then, came the intermission of thirty minutes, after which the curtain was to rise for the grand finale. In due time the vast audience had repacked the hall, and the tinkling bell was sending every heart to its owner's lips. The curtain rolled slowly upwards, revealing by degrees the gorgeous scene behind, through the medium of an ethereal ros}' cloud. A murmur of admiration rippled through the hall as the audience grasped the significance of the magnificent couj) iVoeul. The stage, resplendent with flowers and shim- mering draperies, dawned upon the sight like a fairy scene. In the midst of it stood a group of young girls, each bear- ing the coat-of-arms of one of the Confederate States. The flagbearer, beautiful as a houri, stood prominently in front of ECHOES FROM THE WAR. 151 her companions. The silkenfolds of her handsoemly wrought banner, caressed her elegant figure, as perfect in grace of pose as that of a statue. In the rear ot the stage, a young girl sat at a grand piano. At the rising of the curtain, her skill- ful fingers ran swiftly over the keys, and the air of the "Bon- nie Blue Flag" dropped pearl-like, on the perfumed atmos- phere Suddenly, a voice caught the first note of the accompani- ment, and rippled forth as clear, as pure and as free as that of a prima-donna. Stanza after stanza went up on the wings of that sweet voice, interrupted only by those who joined in the grand chorus. The heart of the audience stood still until the last echo of the song had faded into silence. Then, as by common impulse, the people rose to their feet, applauding, cheering, weeping. A storm of flowers fell upon the stage. A young girl, with the face ot a wild rose, stood before them, bowing, smiling, and gathering up their oflierings so thickly strewn at her feet. Lucile looked into her pupil's radiant countenance and whispered: "I am proud of you Nannie." After the noise and excitement had somewhat subsided, Corine Gresham walked towards the foot-lights; upon her had fallen the honor of presenting the flag to the departing company. All hearts throbbed with emotion at the sight of the beautiful girl, clasping the staff which bore aloft the en- sign of their love and predilection. Her delicately chiseled features and lilj'-like complexion, were crowned by the aureole of her pale-gold hair, catching the light at every movement of her graceful form — aside from her striking personality, which excited general admiration. The office devolved upon her seemed to have consecrated her to the Cause the people had so warmly advocated. They listened in silent awe to the touching address d,elivered to the " boys in grey ^ " and their 152 ZULMA, A STORY OP THE OLD SOUTH. gallant leader. Whether through coquetr}', or under the in- fluence of her patriotic feeling, Corine, before parting with the flag, pressed to her scarlet lips, the tassels which decorated the extremities of the cords. This simple act once more thrilled the spectators into prolonged cheers, until drowned by the music and rousing song which was to close the perform- ance. "Sons of freedom, on to glory! Go where brave men do or die. Let your name, in future story. Gladden every patriot's eye. "'Tis your country calls you; hasten! Backward hurl the invading foe; Freemen never think of danger, To the glorious battle, go!" AT CORNE A CHEVREUIL. 153 CHAPTER XV. AT CORNE A CHEVREUIL. One morning, in the latter part of October, Lucile sat at her piano practicing "Acher's Contemplations." She had drawn the curtains aside, that she might lose nothing of ttfe ideal da}', or of the unclouded sky which revealed itselt in cerulean patches between the branches of an oak near by. But she was in no humor for study; her fingers wandered passively over the keys as she gazed at the royal dahlias nodding in the stiff breeze, or listened to the shrill notes of a locust concealed in the lichened bark. A mocking-bird, in an olive bush, began pouring out its little soul in mimic lays. " It would never do to compete with you; little fellow," thought Lucile; with- drawing her hands from the board. She had just placed be- fore her, the beautiful song, "All Quiet Along the Potomac To-night." " I wonder if you sang as well when you first started to practice, birdie?" was her mental query. " You were not like us stupid people, who have to work all our lives improving the gifts nature bestows upon us." Her reverie came to an abrupt termination and the charm- ing coup d'oeid was instantaneously intercepted by a pair of soft hands laid firmly across her eyes. "'Tisyou, Rosanna; I know by your tapering fingers!" exclaimed Lucile, seizing her friend's hands. "I'm glad you carte," she continued, turning on the revolving stool and pass- ing her arms affectionately around her waist, "I thought of 154 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. riding out to your place this evening and delivering a message I had for you, and as I know you will never guess from whom, I shall tell j'ou; it is from Grandpere." " From Mr. Lafitte?" cried Rosanna, with a glow of pleas- ure flitting across her lovely countenance, "how kind of him to remember me, at all." "He has taken quite a fancy to you, and wants me to bring you out next Wednesday, to spend a whole week at Corns a ChevrenH. They started the mill yesterday; everything will 6e in full blast by the time we get there." "T shall be but too happy to accept the kind invitation. I think the old place is the dearest one on earth to visit, and your grandparents, the sweetest and most picturesque old peo- ple I ever met." "We must be up with the lark Wednesday morning," said Lucile, with a beaming smile; "an early drive through those woods in fall, is worth the sacrifice of one's nap after morning coffee." "And False River is such an enchanting region," replied Rosanna; "so full of quaint scenery, of flower gardens and prett)^ sugar plantations. I do love to see the waving cane fields and smell the odor of boiling cane juice." "Then you shall soon, I hope, have the satisfaction of inhaling a whole ' seasonful' of the tempting odors, for papa intends turning into a suuar planter as soon as the war is over; and I now extend you an unlimited invitation to spend with me the pleasures of our first grinding." "That time may be a long way off, Lucile; still, I shall pin to ray heart your gracious invitation. But I must not for- get to show you this," continued the girl, drawing from her belt a slip of paper. "Oh, Mrs. Hunt! come in, I want you AT CORNE A CHEVREUIL. 155 to guess the name of the author of this beautiful war-song. It was written by some one living out on False River. " Mrs. Hunt was on the gallery, pruning her pot- plants; she entered the room with her shears and a handful of with- ered leaves and flowers. "I was not aware, " she remarked, seating herself at the edge of the sofa, "that False River counted poets among her other attractions; read the verses — one of you — that I may form an opinion." "Well, mamma, "said Lucile, who held the paper, "listen, the title of the song is, ' My Mar3iand, ' — it should have been, My Louisiana — and I am prejudiced against the writer for overlooking his own state. " "The despot's heel is on thy shore, Maryland! His torch is at thy temple door, Maryland, Avenge the patriotic gore, That flecked the streets of Baltimore, Maryland, my Maryland. " Dear Mother, burst the tyrant's chain, Maryland, Virginia should not call in vain, Maryland, She meets her sisters on the plain — ' Sic sanpe?'' — 'tis the proud refrain - That baifles minions back amain, Maryland, my Maryland! " I hear the distant thunder hum, Maryland, The old line bugle, fife and drum, Maryland. She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb. Huzzah: she spr.rns tl.e northern skum; She bi'eathes — she burns — she'll come! She'll come' Maryland, my Maryland." 156 ZULMA, A STORY OP THE OLD SOUTH. "The author is certainly a patriot, and his song is full of sMrriag sentiment," said Mrs. Hunt, with warmth. "It would make a glorious song, if some one would only set it to music." " But it has already been set to music, Mrs. Hunt, and I have sent for the song. They say that the air is quite in keep- ing with these noble thoughts." "Tell me who wrote this?"' asked Lucile. " Professor Randall, and he wrote it while he was teach- ing at the Poydras college. He is a Marylander. " "I humbly beg hi«! pardon then," cried Lucile, "and I now honor him for his genius, and for the devotion which in- spired him in the writing of this beautiful song." Dave drove the girls out Wednesday morning, bright and early. It was a perfect day, and the drive through the woods and over the hard, smooth roads, was most enjoyable. The crisp, bracing air was fragrant with woodland odors, and the ditches on the roadside were radiant with lupins and the scar- let flowers of the wild sage. As they bowled along, the girls expatiatecl on the variety of hues assumed by the different kinds of trees, from the diminutive sassafras, in crimson robes, to the towering cypress, silhoutteing its purple tufts against the sky. On leaving the woods, they came across immense cane fields, swaying in undulating waves in the mel- low sunlight. The metallic cling-clang, of the cutter's knives mingled harmoniousl}' with the rumbling of wagons. From the escape valves, the steam butfetted the air in regular and almost voluptuous sounds; and the white vapors, rising from the kettles, floated off to sweeten and purify the earth. Lucde and llosaniia found Mrs. LaStte in the dining- room, superintending the breakfast in preparation for the AT CORNE A CHEVREUIL. 157 white men emplo3'ed at the sugar-house. The former, with mischievous playfulness, inspected with pretended longing the well provisioned tray, which Plaisance, the housekeeper, was about lifting to her turbaned head. " Dear me!" she exclaimed, "you have mustered a break- fast fit for a king; a roasted chicken, fried ribs, fricasseed liver, and an omelette soufftee; all this is enough to make the mouth of an epicure water. 1 declare! here's a pot of cafe au lait — most people have forgotten the taste of Java. Why, Grandmere, have you and Plaisance been in underhand traffic with the Yankees?" "Dat good Confed'rite cafe, yes;" answered the domestic, shaking with good-humored laughter; "yo" nose no smell good mamzelle, dat not'in' but suga' parch coffee."' ' ' Do you mean to tell me, that this stuff is made of p — par — burnt sugar?" •'I does so, dat heap better den corn an' 'tater; w'en I cum back I learn you;'" answered the bustling slave, tripping off with her load with as much cheerfulness and agility as though she had merely donned her straw hat and was off for a jaunt. By the wa}-, Plaisance was quite an important person- age in the household ; she was seamstress and general manager, and was of invaluable worth to her aged mistress, who, of late, had grown so feeble as to be unable to attend to her do- mestic duties. The girls had been promised a breakfast equal to that prepared for the workmen, with the addition of English dairy cheese, and a plate of "baignees" fritters, served with new syrup. In the meantime, they had been invited to sit awhile in grandmere's bed-room, a cool and spacious apartment, filled with old-fashioned furniture. The most conspicuous of the lot were two imposing bedsteads, piled to a great height with 158 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. moss and feather mattresses. Their seemingly unattainable altitude had long been a matter of wonder and anxious specu- lation to Lucile. There was a time when she believed that her grandparents never went to bed but sat in their fauteuUs night after night, from sheer inability to climb their too luxu- rious couches. But '■'■la piece de resistance''' was a magnificent mahogany armoir, ornamented with brass nobs and hinges. Lucile, and sometimes the little household darkies, would stand before it and gaze in wonderment at their tiny figures grotesquely reflected on its polished surface. The latter, in order to increase the effect, would stretch their mouths into hideous contortions, and protrude their eyeballs to a most alarming extent. After installing her grandmother in the comfortable fauteuil^ Lucile perched herself on one of its arms and pro- ceeded to lavish upon lier the most endearing marks of affect- ion. She laid her graceful head upon the old lady's shoulder and gently stroked her cheek. "Dearest Gramf mere," she said, "you look so tired, let me manage things while I stay; you know I'm a first-rate housekeeper." She had been struck with the change time had wrought on that sweet, placid face; there were signs of weariness and sadness lurking in those dark eyes. But grandmere was still very lovely, notwithstanding the weight of years resting on her silvery head. Her soft, wavy hair was still coquettishly tucked with the cutest of combs, and the white kerchief which adorned her shoulders, was of the daintiest fabric. Grand- mere could not speak a word of English, and Lucile was ap- pointed interpreter for the time being. '■'■Ton amie me fait Videe d'une violette," she remarked to Lucile, "«//«> est «/ cliar- mante, Je Vaime heaucouj).'' AT CORNE A CHEVREUIL. 159 ', '• Grandmere thinks j'ou as sweet as a violet, Eosanna, and she says she loves you dearly," echoed Lucile, glancing up with a pleased look. "It would never do for me to tell her how good and beautiful I think her;" answered Rosanna, looking at her friend with a puzzled expression; "she will believe I am only flattering her." "Oh, no, she won't," replied Lucile; "she's a sort of physiognomist, and can see at a glance that you are not a fraud." "Then, she knows I love her," exclaimed the girl, rising from her seat. It was pretty to see her fluttering hesitation before stooping over to kiss grandmere s soft cheek. Like a ray of sunshine streaming over a wintry landscape, a rosy tinge of pleasure flitted across the aged countenance. She laid her hand affectionately upon that of Eosanna, and smilingly drew her to a seat beside her. Lucile had much to tell her grandmother. First, she gave her all the war news, then told what pleasure she took in making garments for the dear Confederate soldiers. She in- quired affectionately about her precious grandpere, who had been ill from a recent attack of vertigo. This indisposition had been aggravated by moral as well as physical causes. Dis- couraging reports from the seat of war had contributed to harass and dishearten the aged planter, and to fill his life with continual worry and apprehension. Lincoln's preliminary procla- mation, issued a few months previous, had produced great excite- ment throughout the Southern States. The threat in the emanci- pation document was received with conflicting emotions. Some considered it unconstitutional and protested bitterly against it; others waited in silent and anxious forebodings for the ap- proaching hour, when Lincoln, with a fell sweep of his pen, 160 ZULMA, A STORY OP THE OLD SOUTH. would despoil them of their hard-earned and legitimate pro- perty. These undisputed facts and gloomy outlooks produced terrible effects on the old people of the parish. Many offered but feeble resistance to the tide of coming events, and the credulous and simple-minded old planters of False River were among the first to succumb to the cruel fortunes of war. After partakmg of a hearty breakfast, Lucile and her companion started off' for the sugar house. They chatted as gayly as two magpies, as they tripped over the rustling cane foliage, scattered along the wagon-road. How pleasant was the prospect before them! The emerald cane field, the sugar mill with the bustling scene around it, and the l)lue, primitive woods beyond. The songs of the negroes at work, came in broken refrains on the bracing air. The}' were blissfully free from the cares and anxieties, and ignorant of the causes which worried and harrassed their old master's mind. They would stop work to tell a joke or watch the noisy crows, wheeling among the pecan trees. On reaching their destination, the girls ran up the narrow steps of the engine room in search of M. Lafitte. He was not to be found, nor was he at the equipage, where the vin de canne (cane juice) and culte boiled furiously in the two last kettles. They waited to see the hands draw a strike, then adjourned to the cooling room, or pnrgerle. A couple of bo3's were making the rounds, dabbling wooden paddles into the coolers for a taste of the culte (cooked syrup), which was seen in different conditions, from the boiling point to the granulated. This is always a very attractive compart- ment to the lovers of the toothsome article; especially to children, who are never debarred from the privilege of dipping their tiny paddles into the contents of any of the coolers ranged on trestles above the concave cisterns. J.(Ucile and Rosauua leaned over the bridge, and gazed with childish in- AT CORNE A CHEVHEUIL. l(jl terest at their reflections in the glassj' surface of the lake of rich syrup. ' 'An awful sensation creeps over me each time I see my reflection down there," remarked Lucile, with a little shudder. ' ' It looks as though some wicked gnome had transported me to a dismal bottomless region and turned me into black marble." "What an extravagant idea!" cried Rosanna, laughing. ' ' But really, we do make strange and uncanny figures down there; wouldnt we be in a predicament if we were to fall in? "What is that over yonder, Lucile? some living thing swimming towards us — let us get out of here, child! " " It is only a rat crossing the Acheron," observed Lucile; "I must call some one to his rescue. " They stepped under the shed, where a dozen young negroes were industriously piling cane on the carrier. The fascinating revolution of the pondrous vehicle, gliding upwards with the sinuous motion of a serpent, so absorbed the attention of the girls, that for a time, the pressing necessities of the unfortunate rodent had entirely escaped their memory. "Oh!" exclaimed Lucile, with a jerk, " that drowning rat!" Then turning to one of the lads who was shucking cane, she said; "Julien, get a hoe or something, and haul out a poor rat that is drowning in the cistern." Julien stared at Lucile with perplexity stamped on his grinning visage. "We nebber bodder de rats, little mistis; wen dey takes a notion to drown deyse'f, we nebber hin- ders 'em." "How vexing! Where is your master?" The boy cast his eyes across the broad expanse before him. " Dere he," he cried, pointing to one of the headlands. 162 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. M. Lafitte had just emerged from a cut of tall cane, which had completely hidden him from view. He had thrown his bridle rein across the pommel of the saddle, and rode with his head bent low, as if in deep meditation. Lucile noticed with affectionate alarm, the stoop in his shoulders, and the air of weariness with which he held himself in the saddle. "Poor darling!" she exclaimed, wiping the tears from her long lashes; " he is growing old, and is losing that beautiful and erect bearing of which I was so proud." "Is your grandfather so very old, Lucile?" asked Rosanna, with concern; "To me he seems the personification of strength and health." " Grandpere is eighty. It is too sad to think of his great age. Before the war broke out, he looked like a man of seventy. He has changed sadly since then." With a face glowing witn animation, Lucile bounded for- ward to meet her venerable relative. '■'■GTondjiere! Old Precious!" she cried. "M. Lafitte alighted from his horse with joyful alacrity. ^'Tiens! Hens! voila ma ptite!" He extended his arms, and Lucile nestled her pretty head on his broad bosom. '■'■Com.hien f avals envie de te voir!'' he exclaimed, aft'.ect- ionately kissing her rosy cheeks. M. Lafitte greeted Rosanna with cordiality. "Me mighty glad you come see de ole peoples," he said, taking her by the hand. "Me keep you an' Lucile all de grin'in' time, hey? Big 'ouse, big yiard fur to play. Plenty cane an' oringe fur to suck; cuite, vin de canne, all dat. You got fur to stay — w'at you tell, hey?" — Here Lucile uttered a little scream, which she had tried in vain to throttle with her handkerchief. "Don't get mad, darling; I couldn't help laughing; you talk to Rosanna as AT CORNE A CHEVREUIL. 163 though she was a little girl ; .why, she is a grown up young lady, grandpere! Don't you see how you have shocked her vanity." ''You must not mind Lucile, Mr. Lafitte, " said Rosanna, laying her hand respectfully on his arm, " I'm but too glad to be taken for a child. I am one in disposition, if not in years, and I want you to treat me just as you do Lucile." "She my leetle Injin gyrl," he replied, gathering Lucile in his arms ; ' ' her papa raise her in de woods ; me want her to stay yere fur to see de big warl." The week at Come a Chevreuil glided by like a dream. The girls, each day, made a trip to the mill, when it was in operation. They dearly loved to be with grnadpere; to sit with him on the platform, in full view of the heaving engine and the revolving rollers, which munched with insatiable avidity, the purple stalks falling incessantly into their iron maws. M. Lafitte would each day peel for them, the white, tender cane he selected from the great heaps under the shed. Some- times he brought them a glass of vin de canne, pefumed with fine old brandy, or a plate of caramel he detached from the sugar-wagon with his pocket-knife. Once, Herbert and Mrs. Hunt came to spend the day. The surprise added much to their enjoyment. They never had a better time. Why, even grandmere, grown young again, had condescended to climb into the cane wagon, which, by the way, Lucile denominated the "New Confederate Wagon,' and all the way home the young folks sang with glee, the new version: — •'Come, all ye sons of P'reedom, And join our Southern band; We're going to tight the Yankees, And drive them from our land. . Justice is our motto, 164 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. And Providence our guide, So jump into the wagon, And we'll all take a ride." (Then the Chorus) :— " So wait for the wagon, the new Confederate wagon. The dear Secession wagon, and we'll all take a ride." Grandmere's garden was a paradise, a mass of entangled lovliness. If ever there was a tree, a shrub, or an herb, that refused to grow in that favored spot, Lucile could not find it in her botanical vocabulary. For the past ten years, grand- mere and Plaisance had been planting flowers for la p'tite; and a mania had seized them, to thrust into the ground every root or cutting legitimately falling into their hands. These had all taken kindly to the soil; they grew, flourished, and fratern- ized; distilling their odors, and conveying delightful thoughts and revelations to the old people, who, for so long had re- mained unsusceptible to the mysterious beauties of nature. This miscellaneous assemblage had been planted without regu- larity or picturesque arrangement, and had thrived in all sorts of localities. The cabbage bed was bordered with violets and thyme. Roses, poppies and balsams disputed territory with the beans and squashes; fruit trees of every variety, protested against the aggressive honej^suckle and climbing roses. There was always some delightful attraction in this garden of Eden. In early spring, yellow bunches of Japan plums glittered like gold among the dark green foliage of the trees; then came mulberries and plums and peaches; later on, the figs and ap- ples and oranges. Each morning the girls came here to pluck oranges and gather the creamy flowers of the sweet olive, to strew on grandmere's bed. But this life of pleasantness was fast coming to a close. Two days more were left of the mem- orable week; the morrow was All-Saints' day, and M. Lafilte AT CORNE A CHEVREUIL. 165 was going to take the girls to St. Francis' Church, that they might witness the touching- and beautiful ceremony of the decoration of the graves. Lucile and Rosanna were anxious to visit the ancient and historic church, and the cemeter}' where reposed the ashes of the oldest inhabitants of the parish. A capacious bedroom, adjoining that of the aged couple, had been allotted the girls. The white walls and immaculately clean floor, received each morning a brief visit from the sun, which straggled in from between the leaves of a magnificent catalpa, shading the front gallery. Lucile was too fond a lover of the cheerful sunlight to confine herself to this dingy apart- ment. With her grandmother's permission, she occupied dur- ing the day Ja chambre a ronet, as it was styled, because an ancient spinning-wheel, had tor years held undisputed posses- sion of one of the corners. As this room was at the gable end, with its windows facing the south, the sunbeams came dancing in at their own sweet will, at all hours of the day. Sometimes they made a leap for the mantle-piece, where stood an old French clock, with its hands forever pointing to half-past two; then again they crept under the treadle of the wheel, as if to steal its mouldering memories. This family relic possessed a strange fascination to Lucile. From the time of her earliest child- hood, she remembered how her grandmother used to set it a humming for her special delectation. When she grew older, and could work the treadle herself, it became her chief source of amusement during her visits to her grandparents. But she had been told since, of a wierd superstition connected with it, and she ceased to tamper with the thing. The tradition was, that the wheel, without human intervention, whirled for a min- ute or two, some weeks previous to the occurence of a death in the family. Its premonitory gyrations were heard a fort- 166 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. night prior to Eugene Lafltte's untimel}' end; and it faithfully predicted the approachino; death of each member who so closeh'^ followed him to the bourne of shadows. It was All-Hallowe'en; both girls were sitting in this chamber; Rosanna had been stitching lace on one of Mrs. Lafitte's neckkerchief s ; she arose, laid it on the bed, and t-moothly folded it. Fearing to disturb Lucile, who was dili- gently writing a letter, she stepped softly around the apart- ment, examining the quaint and nearly obliterated pictures on the wall, and other curious objects about her. When she came to the spinning-wheel, she placed her hand upon it and gave it a turn; it began to whirl with a dismal, creakmg sound. "0, my goodness, don't!" Lucile cried, with unwonted agitation in her manner. "What's the matter, Lucile? you look as though I had awakened to life one of your ancestors." ' ' I cannot bear to see that wheel turning; please do not touch it again, Rosanna!" "Certainly not, since it makes you so nervous." Lucile had not told her friend of the superstition associ- ated with the wheel. "Goon with your writing," said Rosanna, " while I sit here and peel these oranges; we shall eat them when you get through.'' But Lucile laid down her pen and silently watched the autumn leaves pirouetting in the air. " We may as well give up the idea of going to Pointe Coupee to-morrow," she re- marked, after a moment's abstraction; "we are going to have dreadful weather to-night; listen to the wind howling around the corner I " AT CORNE A CHEVBEUIL. 167 "Then don't finish your letter this evening," replied Rosanna, displaying the tempting slices of the oranges on the back of Tennyson's poems. " Let us finish the Princess be- fore supper; we have only three pages more to read." After supper the girls, as was their wont, spent the even- ing in grandmere's room. They were unusually merry and played '■'■ Retrouvons nos Moittons'' with the old folks. Grand- pere could not compete in agilitj' with his frisk}', frolicsome guests; and the way they got him in the brambles, was a thing to laugh at, and they did laugh, until the tears streamed down their rosy cheeks. Then grandmere got them to sing. Lucile, in a sweet, pathetic voice, sang her favorite, '■'■C'est Toi," Ce qu'il me faut a moi. Pour que men triste coeur Renaisse a Tesperance Et reprenne courage. C'est le bois fremissant Et son paisible ombrage On Ton reve au bonheur, Ce qu'il me faut a moi — C'est toi. C'est toi." When these two came to bid the venerable couple good- night, M. Lafitte said to them, with a voice full of emotion, "If only I could keep j'ou here, always, I should never grow older or brood over coming troubles. Mo7i Dieu, how sad it will be after you are gone! " That night Lucile was awakened from her slumbers by the noise of the wind whistling viciously around the house. As she listened, it increased in violence, and began dashing itself with impotent rage against the front doors. This brought on a disinclination to sleep and made her restless. "I shall get up and read a while," she thought, rising softly, for f6ar of 168 ZULMA. A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. waking her friend. She struck a match, lighted the tallow candle on the mantle-piece, and tip-toed into the next room, where she had left her books. She placed the light on the table near the window, and stood for a moment watching the murky clouds and the trees swaying in the wmd. The rain splashed in fitful gusts against the glass, and a few rain drops sjinttered m her face. The sight of her writing materials re- minded her of the unfinished letter. '■'■Cest vraiT' she ex- claimed, "lean finish ray letter; tomorrow morning ^ra»(/- pere will send it to the postoffice. " She seated herself, dipped the pen in the ink, and wrote: — ' ' I left ort' here, dear Madge, to eat an orange and chat with a friend, who is spending a week here at Come a Chevreuil. I have already spoken to you of my venerable relatives, but 1 never could give you a correct idea of their peaceful life here in this old homestead, full of relics and interesting souvenirs. Our visit is nearly ended and it saddens me to think how lonely the old people will be after we are gone. They are both quite old and feeble, and in sore need of someone to cheer them up, especially in those war times, when fear and excitement alone, would have a tendency to shorten their lives. The thought is a source of much un happiness to me. I began this letter before supper; after spending a few hours with my grand parents, I went to bed and was soon lulled to sleep by the leaves rustling over the gallery floor. I love to hear them at night, when I am half asleep. I make believe they are spirits madly tumbling about in the darkness. It is a delicious kind of fear which overcomes me and makes me drowsy. I was awakened by the noise the wind made among the catalpa trees. As sleep had fled from my eyes, I got up with the intention of watching the storm, Ijut the sight of this letter reminded me of my promise to you." AT CORXE A CHEVBEUIL. 169 Suddenh' a familiar sound fell upon Lucile's ear. '•Click- clack," as though the old wheel was making a supreme effort to start. Her pen was arrested, and her heart stood still. A deathly silence succeeded. "There is a mouse fumbling in that cor- ner, " Lucile half whispered to herself; "T wish he would go about his business." The intruder, however, had scattered her ideas. She dipped her pen in the ink and prepared to resume her writing. But it was no easy task to divert her mind from the ominous sound, which had filled her with vague misgivings. "Click-clack-click;'' the wheel to her horroi", now broke into a furious whirl. A cold blast, generated b^' its swift rev- olutions, struck her bloodless cheeks, and a black pall fell be- tween her and the light. Lucile fell in a faint across the table. A^ this period of the war, coffee was a scarce article in most families, but Mrs. Lafitte hoarded, as misers hoard gold, a certain quantit,y of fine coffee left from an old and plentiful supply, a portion of which was periodically roasted and carefully pulverized in a wooden mortar made for that special purpose. A decoction of this priceless article was served as a tonic to each member of ihe household at an early hour of each morning. On All Saints' day, Plaisauce, as usual, walked into the girls' room carrying the plateau upon which she had placed the two antique coffee cups. The beverage instantaneously filled the apartment with its delicious aroma. "Yere yo' cafe, inamzeUrs.''' she called, pulling at the quilt and giving a vigorous shake at the foremost occupant of the bed. 170 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. Lucile opened her eyes and stared at Plaisance with a bewildered expression. ' ' Was it you who brought me back to bed?" she asked in a tremulous tone of voice. "Me bring you back ware, ^tite mamzelleV " Brought me back from that room after I fainted." "What are you talking about, Lucile?" demanded Ros- anna, sitting up in bed and looking at her companion with eyes expanded with astonishment. "Who said you had fainted?" " I know I did, for I don't remember coming back to bed." " You have been lying here, sound asleep all night, Lu- cile; you must lave dreamed of having fainted." Lucile gave no answer, but rolled out of bed and rushed into the adjoining room. There were the writing materials, just as she had left them before going to supper. She snatched from the table the unfinished letter, expecting to find the lines she had written at that terrible moment in the night, but not a word could she find of the subject which had made such a profound impression on her mind. A leaden weight seemed lifted from her soul, she laid down the epistle with a fervent " Thank God! it was only a dream!" But her eye fell upon the wheel; its outlines, half shrouded in shadows, seemed in- vested with supernatural powers. She was seized with an indefinable dread lest she would once again become the un- willing spectator of its sinister proceedings. Stifling a little nervous cry, she sprang back into her own room, ex- claiming, "It was only a dream, Rosanna, only a dream!" JOURNEYING TO SAINT FRANCIs' CHURCH. 171 CHAPTER XVI. JOURNEYING TO SAINT FRANCIs" CHURCH. /^N a oold dreary day in January, a funeral cortege slowly ^-^ wended its way along the bank of False River. The waters no longer reflected the lajji's lazuli of the sk}-, or the rose and purple tints of luminous clouds, but flung themselves in tumultuous waves against the shore, sobbing with moan and low-voiced misereres. "Draw your hood closer over your face, daughter; do you not feel the wind?" asked Mr. Hunt of Lucile, who sat be- side him in the carriage next to the hearse. "I feel nothing, papa," she answered, opening for a mo- ment, her large, sad eyes; "nothing but a cruel pain at my heart;" and her dark lashes dropped heavily on her wan cheeks, closing the prospect on those orbs, once so alert and eager to grasp and speculate on every passing object. Mr. Hunt gazed with concern upon the sweet, tear-stained face of his child, hut made no effort to comfort her. He knew that grief had laid a crushing hand upon her young, faithful heart, and it was best to leave her to the luxury of her sorrow. He sat silently watching the dull, monotonous scenery through which they passed — a strip of woods stretching between the town of New Roads and the cultivated lands on the bank of the Mississippi river. In some places the road was so narrow that the branches of trees met half way across, forming an arch overhead. The trailing moss, under the im- pulsion of the fierce, north wind, now lashed and tormented 172 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. the naked trees, theu tell resignerlly in the air, like melan- choly banner's weeping over the dead. The long line of car- nages plodding through the soft black mud, had reached the open country; a locality abounding in flourishirg sugar plan- tations. As they approached their destination, Mr. Hunt caught a glimpse of the steeple of old Saint Francis" Church, peering from among an assemblage of evergreen pines, cedars and dark-hued cypresses. They over-shadowed the graves and monuments, crowding each other, and keeping vigil over the sleepers, murmuring, sighing, and intoning dirges or soothing psalmodies. The first stroke of the tolling bell aroused Lucile from her apparent apathy ; she started in her seat and cast a look full of anguish upon the black liearse in front ot her. '■'■GrandjjereV' she exclaimed in a low, suppressed tone of voice; "0, my precious grnvdpere!" "Lucile, darling!" said her father, passing his arm around her shivering form, "control your feelings; you must not grieve thus; you will make yourself ill." "0, papa! T cannot help grieving for him— my own — own — dearest gravdperer she answered, turning upon him a look of piteous entreaty ; he loved us so, papa, and we shall never see him again — never — never!"' Mr. Hunt felt the justice of her reproach and remorse smote his heart like a dagger. ' ' I know but too well how legitimate is your sorrow, Ijucile, for he was worthy of our deepest love and deserves our lasting regret. But it is wrong to deplore his death as an eternal separation; shall we not follow hlra sooner or later, and be reunited to him in another life?" "Grod grant it!" she answered with great earnestness; then, after a brief silence, she remarked: " He had promised to bfing us here next Easter, and I was looking forward tO that JOURNEYING TO SAINT FRANCIs' CHURCH. 173 daj' with such pleasant anticipations; little did T dream of coming with him thus — with his poor hands crossed over his breast, and his dear face forever hidden from my sight — so soon, too — so soon. " M.y precious! '' here she burst into an uncontrolable fit of sobbing. Her father allowed her to give full vent to her emotions; knowing that nothing else could relieve her overburdened heart. Mr. Lafitte's remains were carried to the rear of the cera- tery, and placed in a large tomb, with those of his father and brothers. After the funeral solemnities, the assistants dis- persed about the place and strolled along the well kept paths and alleys. Some lingered in prayer near the resting places of friends or relatives; others, rambling OA'^er the grounds, examining inscriptions on the tombs or on some half crumb- ling monument — "A relic left like a wreck upon the distant shores of time. " Wreaths of immortelles and other decor- ative mementoes, though faded and wind-tossed, still hung to some of the monuments. As Mr. Hunt walked through these silently crowded aisles thickh' strewn with " memory's offer- ings," he pondered on the salutary influence, such touching devotion might produce on the living, and regretted that the custom was confined to Catholic congregations. On their return from Pointe Coupee, Lucile found her grandmother in a very critical condition. She had just recov- ered from a swoon and la}- with her languid eyes fixed on the clock on the mantle-piece. One of the neighbors, who had been standing by Mr. Lafittes deathbed, had arrested the pendulum at the moment of his demise. It was a strange co- incidence, the hands pointed precisely to " half -past two," the hour denoted by the old clock in " la chambre a rouet.'' Mrs. Hunt and Lucile made generous and heroic efforts to subdue their own grief, for the sake of the dear one whose loss was 174 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. irreparable, and for whose wounded heart tlie earth held no balm. The night after the funeral, Mrs. Hunt sat at her mother's bedside, listening sadly to her spasmodic breathing and to the low, pitiful moans, which occasionally escaped her pale, thin lips. Lucile kept watch with her mother, but from time to time, she crept into ber own room to give vent to her overflow- ing heart. There were so many things around her to remind her of the dear, departed one; tliey haunted her and prayed upon her mind, with sharp and cruel persistence. Once, her eyes fell upon her grandfather's old hat, hanging upon the familiar wooden peg; her heart gave a great throb, and a smothered cry escaped her lips. Iler mother, with an inquir- ing glance, turned her colorless face towards her. But the poor child had already buried her head into her lap, trying to stifle the convulsive sobs which shook her delicate frame. Her prolonged vigils and exhausting fatigues, at length overpow- ered her, and she lost in profound sleep, all consciousness of her sad surroundings, Mrs. Hunt and Plaisance watched with anxious solicitude, the beloved patient, until she, too, to their great relief, fell into trancpiil slumber. Thus, that dreary, desolate, and interminable night, with its leaden-footed hours, passed through the echoless portals of eternity. Mrs. Hunt walked softl}^ to the window and lifted the curtain to take a peep at the outer world, hoping against hope, to find some shred with which to bind her bleeding, disconso- late heart. Far away, across the river and high above the misty woods, dawn was approaching. The curtains of myste- rious night had been torn asunder, and a solitary star flashed in the crimson of a crystal sky. Mrs. Hunt fixed her earnest gaze on the brilliant spectacle, and her thoughts wondered in solemn conjectures, beyond earthly cares and tribulations. This JOURNEYING TO SAINT FRANCIS' CHURCH. I'i5 earth, she knew, was but an atom, compared with other systems in the universe; but now it seemed to her only "a vale of tears, "through which mortals journeyed on their way to a happier sphere of life. "Perhaps," she mused, "God has planted his throne in the center of this glorious universe, and these shining stars are in reality, the many mansions alluded to by our Divine Saviour. And it might be that my dearest father has already reached one of these beautiful abodes. Wherever he be, God grant that we may some day rejoin him. His guileless, up- right and toilsome career on earth, certainly obtained for him a blissful eternity ; and none of his loved ones need fear to meet him in the realm of his new existence. ' Here she was overcome bj' the tenderness of her emotions; her bosom heaved and sorrowful tears streamed abundantly down her cheeks. She dropped the curtain and returned to her mother's bedside, where she knelt with her rosary in her hand. She was still engaged in prayer, when Mrs. Lafitte awoke. On looking up, Mrs. Hunt was struck with the change that had taken place in her mother's appearance during the short interval consecrated to her devotions. The dull, hopeless expression had vanished, and one of pathetic sweetness and resignation bad taken its place. "Can I do anything for you, dearest mother?" asked Mrs. Hunt, bending with loving solicitude over the gentle sufferer. Mrs. Lafitte gazed at her with a confused and perplexed expression in her eyes. "Why did you awake me, Elise? I was happier in my sleep; I am sorry you brought me back to the sad realities of this wretched life." ' ' Dearest, do not speak so ; your words distress me. Do you not love us enough to make an effort to regain your 176 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. strength and health that you might live for our sake — Lueile's and mine?" ' ' Dear child, if you knew what has just passed between us, you would not urge me to stay." "You have been dreaming, mother." "You are mistaken. I never was more conscious of my sorrowful existence than at the moment your father appeared to me. He stood here, at my bedside, gazing on me with a look full of tenderness — then he laid his hand upon mme, say- ing: 'Dear wife, it is not for long; death shall not separate us!' The touch of his hand was as palpable to me as that of a living being, Elise; and I felt it for a considerable time after he had spoken." It was Mrs. Hunt who, in kneeling, had laid a lingering hand upon her mother's. She knew that this external impres- sion had contributed to intensify the conviction of the imagi- nary presence; she opened her lips to undeceive her mother, but the serene and heavenly expression of her countenance dis- concerted her. She could not make up her mind to dispel the sweet delusion which had served to assuage her grief and had buoyed up her spirits by the hope of a speedy reunion. "It may be, dear one," she answered, stroking the soft white hair of the aged widow, "that God does permit the spirits of those we love to hover around us during the first period of our bereavement, to soothe our souls and comfort us by the intuitive knowledge of their presence. Great and good men have believed this, and written most touchingly on the subject." She remembered Longfellow's beautiful lines: "Then the forms of the departed Enter the open door; The beloved, the true hearted Come to visit me once more." JOURNEYING TO SAINT FRANCIS CHURCH. 1 ( i "But dearest mother," she continued, "our imagination has a great deal to do with such things ; our dreams are very vivid, and lead us to believe as real experiences, what are only the creations of a morbid brain, or the effects of nervous debil- ity." "Elise, my child," answered her mother, after a moment's reflection, "the visit I received from your father, was not a mental delusion, but a warning of my approaching death, a call to which I shall gladly respond. I know that I shall never more rise from this bed." "0 mother, do not leave us! what shall we do without you?" cried Mrs. Hunt, bursting into tears. "Have we not enough to suffer from the blow that has just fallen upon us?" "You will have your husband and child to comfort you, my daughter, but I am alone, and I cannot live without him. This house will seem like a tomb, and I shall feel like a ghost haunting its emptiness. How can you ask me to lead such a dreary, hopeless existence?"' "But mother, my dearest mother, you will not remain here and lead this lonely life. As soon as you are restored to health, you shall go with us to Grosse Tete, where your chil- dren shall comfort and cherish you, and help you to bear the cross God has seen fit to lay upon your shoulder. " "O Elise, I pray you!" cried the aged woman clasping her hands in pitiable supplication; ' 'do not take me away from my old home. It is so dear- to me! A thousand associations bind it to my poor, bruised heart. Let me stay until I die — it will not be for long. " There was a look of distress in her sunken eyes, and a peculiar contraction around her mouth which filled Mrs. Hunt with apprehension. She hastened to awake Plaisance, who had fallen asleep on a pallet in an adjoining room. The opiate 178 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. they administered, and their soothing and reassuring words, soon produced their desired effects; and the exhausted patient h\y for some time in comparative tranquility. After a pro- longed stillness, Mrs. Lafitteonce more spoke to her daughter. "You are a Christian, Elise; you must make up your mind to submit yourself to the will of God and help me to prepare my- self for this last, long voyage. Do not weep, do not grieve for me, my dear daughter. Shall we not meet again in a bet- ter world? I wish to receive the Sacraments, that I may be strengthened in my passage through the dark valley — that our Saviour himself may lead me, and restore me to my beloved. " A week passed. To Lucile and her mother it was one clogged with tears and loneliness of heart. The precious life they strove to retain, flickered away like a fire left without fuel. Day by day, they saw her strength declining and her life ebbing away slowly and painlessly. There was in her eyes a look of longing and eager expectancy, like that of one watch- ing for the hour of her deliverance. One evening Mrs. Hunt and Lucile stood near her with anxious and affectionate solici- tude depicted in their weeping eyes. The pallid countenance of the dying one was lit up with a supernatural light which filled them with awe. Suddenly, she stretched her feeble hands towards them: "Ehse — Lucile — my children— help me!" she faintly cried; "help me to cross the cold water — stay with me until I pass over — I see him beckoning on the shore beyond!" Mrs. Hunt lifted her dying parent from her pillow, and laid her head upon her own throbbing bosom. "Do not fear, mother; i shall not leave you; my loving arms are around you; I shall hold 3'ou until you reach the shore." It was a calm, beautiful afternoon in February. A blue, subtle haze hung over the earth like a veil, and the rays of the JOURNEYING TO SAINT FRANCIS' CHURCH. 179 setting sun filtered through the opalescent air, darting down- wards their golden shafts as if pointing to bewildered souls, the shining way to the throne of God. The pure spirit of grajidmere, perchance, had fallen into one of these stream- ing paths, for the casket of her white soul lay cold and still in her deserted home. Once again the black hearse with its trappings of woe, passed through the wide gates between the antled horns. At the sight of the lugubrious vehicle destined to carry away the re- mains of their beloved old mistress, the negroes congregated about the yard and gallery, raised their voices in despairing cries and lamentations. In those da3^s, when a kind master died, his slaves were filled with consternation; for the very in- dulgence which lightened their burdens and mitigated the trials of their condition, served to accentuate their sufferings in a more distressful and hopeless servitude. The estate, m pass- ing into other hands, generally necessitated the sale of this living chattel, and consequently, was followed by heart-render- ing scenes, and by separations more cruel than death. Although the Lafitte negroes knew that their young mistress, Mrs. Hunt, was the sole heir to the estate, and that her husband was con- sidered one of the most lenient masters of the parish, yet the fear of being sold or put under the management of a harsh overseer, filled them with dismay. Thus they wept and moaned and bewailed their wretched lot, until Mr. Hunt appeased their fears by kind assurance, and the promise of protection against cruel drivers. This touching scene was enacted after the 1st of January, 1863. The day which proclaimed their freedom, had already dawned upon them, and the shackles of thralldom had fallen from their feet. They, and thousands of their race in bondage, though ignorant of the blessed fact, owned no master save 180 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. One, by whose inscrutable means their deliverance had been accomplished. Still, these loving, faithful creatures followed in humble distress, the remains of the last human being that was destined to exercise authority over their lives and fortunes. Departing winter, sprinkled once with snow the brown fields and unsightly stubbles, leaving its thrice melancholy record to the sad hearts at Highland. When May burst upon the world, with all the luxuriance of its sweet gifts of birds and flowers, and the soft blades of bermuda, once more waved over forgotten graves at St. Francis, the work of loving handa expanded into beauty within the railings of the Lafitte lot. Blue-eyed violets sprawled beneath their verdant canopies, and slyly peeped at their new and peaceful surroundings. The lilac, once sacred to the dead, offered to every pass- ing bee its dripping chalices, and an old cabbage rose-bush, once the pride of gr SOUTH. died but he had gone to Texas, where he married and left a large family of children." ' 'Ain't you mighty proud of dese yere hran neio relations^ missis?" asked Zulma with a beaming smile. "Indeed I am, Zulma, but the dangers which now sur- round him and threaten his life, malie me very unhappy and spoil the pleasure of having him with us." "You're skeerin' yo'self fur nuffin' missis; nobody gwine ter tell on you, an' no Yankee gwine ter lay hole of dis yere cousin of yourn. Ain't I yere ter stan' by 3'ou?" True to her promise, Zulma became guardian spirit of the household for the time being. As long as the enemy hovered in the neighborhood, she kept watch and ward, while the fam- ily strove to quiet and soothe the patient, who, for many days, tossed with fever and racking pains, upon a delirious bed. It was she, who made surreptitious visits to the hen-house at night and throttled the chickens for his broth. It was she, who outwitted the Federals on her way to the drug-shop and smuggled in the doctor. These and numerous other services she rendered, proved liow utterly impotent would have been the family's devotion to their new found relative, without the concurrence of the faithful Zulma. A few hours after this interview, half a dozen Confederate scouts passed the Hunt place, just as one of the hands was about driving his wagon out of the stable-3'ard. They noticed that it was loaded witli corn, on top of which lay the carcas- ses of three freshly slaughtered hogs. "Where are you going with that load?" demanded one of the party, checking up his horse. "Hanlin' it ter de camp out dare, cap'an;" responded Andre, humbly pulling off his tattered hat. THE PATHOS AXD THE COMEDY OF WAR. 215 "You'll do no such thing, j-ou infernal rascal!" cried the officer angrily. ' 'Go right back !" Mr. Hunt, who was standing at the crib door, started in the direction of the gate, and called out: "What's keeping you, Andre. Go on!" "Not while I am here to prevent him, Mr. Hunt;" replied the Confederate, stationing himself in front of the team. Mr. Hunt bit his lip with vexation. "One of the Federal officers came here this morning and ordered these provisions to be sent to their camp. You will only put me in trouble by de- laying the driver. Move out of the way, please." "I advise you to act with more prudence, Mr. Hunt," sug- gested the corporal, for such he was. "If you mean to take advantage of your political opinions to presume — " "There is no presumption m the case," interrupted Mr. Hunt with impatience; "I must either forward these supplies as demanded or suffer the consequences of a refusal. Y^our regiment is indebted to me for past courtesies and favors which you know I have never withheld from you, notwith- standing our differences of opinion; and I think your intefer- ence untimely, as well as unreasonable." "But it is our duty to prevent the enemy from getting these provisions," answered the corporal, with an air of au- thority. "Under different circumstances it would have been your duty, I acknowledge ; but this is an exceptional case. Com- plications which I cannot now explain, compel me to avoid an unpleasant encounter with the Federals. I hope you will accept my reasons without further argument, corporal." "But you are too easily intimidated," persisted the subor- dinate. "I assure you, the Y^ankees will not hold you account- able for our proceedings. They will readily understand that 216 ZULMA, A STORY OF THE OLD SOUTH. you had to submit — much against your inclination — to a supe- rior authority.'" "Your reasoning, though logical, will not serve the pur- pose;" answered Mr. Hunt, leisurely taking out his watch. "It is not supposed that the Federals will brook a delay. In a quarter of an hour, periiaps before, they will send out another scout to ascertain the cause of it. And you, gentlemen, will have the satisfaction of contesting through the agency of bul- lets, the contents of the wagon. " He politely touched his hat, and turning on his heels, left them to their own devices. A look of consternation swept over Andre's countenance. He stepped within the enclosure and bawled out: "Marslar, mus' me an' de mules stand 'mongst dem bul- lits?" "Close up!" answered one of the soldiers, pointing his re- volver at the friglitened negro. Confounded by Mr. Hunts cool an