The Goodness of St. Rocque | Page 5

hearts beat furiously at the
sound of every passing footstep, and two minds wondered if the other
were enjoying the beloved one's smiles. Two pair of eyes, however,
blue and black, smiled on others, and their owners laughed and seemed
none the less happy. For your Creole girls are proud, and would die
rather than let the world see their sorrows.
Monday evening Theophile, the missing, showed his rather sheepish
countenance in Manuela's parlour, and explained that he, with some
chosen spirits, had gone for a trip--"over the Lake."
"I did not ask you where you were yesterday," replied the girl, saucily.
Theophile shrugged his shoulders and changed the conversation.
The next week there was a birthday fete in honour of Louise,
Theophile's young sister. Everyone was bidden, and no one thought of
refusing, for Louise was young, and this would be her first party. So,
though the night was hot, the dancing went on as merrily as light young
feet could make it go. Claralie fluffed her dainty white skirts, and cast
mischievous sparkles in the direction of Theophile, who with the
maman and Louise was bravely trying not to look self-conscious.
Manuela, tall and calm and proud-looking, in a cool, pale yellow gown
was apparently enjoying herself without paying the slightest attention
to her young host.
"Have I the pleasure of this dance?" he asked her finally, in a lull of the
music.
She bowed assent, and as if moved by a common impulse they strolled
out of the dancing-room into the cool, quaint garden, where jessamines
gave out an overpowering perfume, and a caged mocking-bird
complained melodiously to the full moon in the sky.
It must have been an engrossing tete-a-tete, for the call to supper had
sounded twice before they heard and hurried into the house. The march
had formed with Louise radiantly leading on the arm of papa. Claralie

tripped by with Leon. Of course, nothing remained for Theophile and
Manuela to do but to bring up the rear, for which they received much
good-natured chaffing.
But when the party reached the dining-room, Theophile proudly led his
partner to the head of the table, at the right hand of maman, and smiled
benignly about at the delighted assemblage. Now you know, when a
Creole young man places a girl at his mother's right hand at his own
table, there is but one conclusion to be deduced therefrom.
If you had asked Manuela, after the wedding was over, how it
happened, she would have said nothing, but looked wise.
If you had asked Claralie, she would have laughed and said she always
preferred Leon.
If you had asked Theophile, he would have wondered that you thought
he had ever meant more than to tease Manuela.
If you had asked the Wizened One, she would have offered you a
charm.
But St. Rocque knows, for he is a good saint, and if you believe in him
and are true and good, and make your nouvenas with a clean heart, he
will grant your wish.
TONY'S WIFE
"Gimme fi' cents worth o' candy, please." It was the little Jew girl who
spoke, and Tony's wife roused herself from her knitting to rise and
count out the multi-hued candy which should go in exchange for the
dingy nickel grasped in warm, damp fingers. Three long sticks,
carefully wrapped in crispest brown paper, and a half dozen or more of
pink candy fish for lagniappe, and the little Jew girl sped away in
blissful contentment. Tony's wife resumed her knitting with a stifled
sigh until the next customer should come.
A low growl caused her to look up apprehensively. Tony himself stood
beetle-browed and huge in the small doorway.
"Get up from there," he muttered, "and open two dozen oysters right
away; the Eliots want 'em." His English was unaccented. It was long
since he had seen Italy.
She moved meekly behind the counter, and began work on the thick
shells. Tony stretched his long neck up the street.
"Mr. Tony, mama wants some charcoal." The very small voice at his
feet must have pleased him, for his black brows relaxed into a smile,

and he poked the little one's chin with a hard, dirty finger, as he
emptied the ridiculously small bucket of charcoal into the child's bucket,
and gave a banana for lagniappe.
The crackling of shells went on behind, and a stifled sob arose as a bit
of sharp edge cut into the thin, worn fingers that clasped the knife.
"Hurry up there, will you?" growled the black brows; "the Eliots are
sending for the oysters."
She deftly strained and counted them, and, after wiping her fingers,
resumed her seat, and took up the endless crochet work, with her usual
stifled sigh.
Tony and his wife had always been