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"Good-bye, New Orleans soldier-boy," she said, gaily, and as I raised my cap she gave herself a fetching air and added, "I'll wager I know your name."

A sweet color was I. "Yes, that's what I said; Cockerel. Isn't your last name Cockerel?"

"No," he said, "my last name is Durand." He gave it the French pronunciation.

"Guess I'm the first Yankee y' ever caught, ain't I?" His smile was superior, but congratulatory.

Through the open windows we could see the dancers. Now and then a pair of fanning promenaders came down the veranda, but on descrying us turned back. I said I was keeping her from the dance. To which she replied, drooping her head again, that she shouldn't dance that night.

I mumbled something about never wishing to tempt any one.

"No, though of course if she lived in the city, common sympathies might easily bring them together."

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