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"Are you not a New Orleans boy?" she asked as I lifted my képi and drew rein.

"One too modest," I murmured, "to know her own portrait." I clutched the braid emotionally and let it go intending to retake it; but she dropped it behind her and said I was too imaginative to be safe.

"Oh!--good-bye, just anybody?" I asked; and thereupon she gathered up all her misplaced trust in me, all her maiden ignorance of what is in man, and all her sweet daring, to murmur--

I attempted an evasion. "Oh--a blanket on the ground--face covered up in it from the mosquitos--is really--"

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