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As I passed up the road through the midst of our nearly tentless camp I met a leather-curtained spring-wagon to which were attached a pair of little striped-legged mules driven by an old negro. Behind him, among the curtains, sat a lady and her black maid. The mistress was of strikingly graceful figure, in a most tasteful gown and broad Leghorn hat. Her small hands were daintily gloved. The mules stopped, and through her light veil I saw that she was handsome. Her eyes, full of thought, were blue, and yet were so spirited they might as well have been black, as her hair was. She, or fate for her, had crowded thirty years of life into twenty-five of time.

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

"And a suit of unie-fawm!" called Cécile, with her Creole accent.

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

"Who don't belong to Ferry's scouts at all," I still more sweetly added.

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