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"Non, I don’t make nothing. Too blame clever, me, dat’s de troub’. She’s a good house,—make money fast like a steamboat,—make a barrel full in a week! Me, I lose money all de days. Too blame clever. "

"Charlie!"

"Eh?"

"Tell me what you’ll take. "

"Make? I don’t make nothing. Too blame clever. "

"What will you take?"

"Oh! I got enough already,—half drunk now. "

"What will you take for the ‘ouse?"

"You want to buy her?"

"I don’t know,"—(shrug),—"maybe,—if you sell it cheap. "

"She’s a bully old house. "

There was a long silence. By and by old Charlie commenced—

"Old Injin Charlie is a low-down dog. "

"C’est vrai, oui!" retorted the Colonel in an undertone.

"He’s got Injin blood in him. "

The Colonel nodded assent.

"But he’s got some blame good blood, too, ain’t it?"

The Colonel nodded impatiently.

"Bien!Old Charlie’s Injin blood says, ‘sell de house, Charlie, you blame old fool!’ Mais, old Charlie’s good blood says, ‘Charlie! if you sell dat old house, Charlie, you low-down old dog, Charlie, what de Compte De Charleu make for you grace-gran’-muzzer, de dev’ can eat you, Charlie, I don’t care.’ "

"But you’ll sell it anyhow, won’t you, old man?"

"No!" And the norumbled off in muttered oaths like thunder out on the Gulf. The incensed old Colonel wheeled and started off.

"Curl!" (Colonel) said Charlie, standing up unsteadily.

The planter turned with an inquiring frown.

"I’ll trade with you!" said Charlie.

The Colonel was tempted. " ‘Ow’l you trade?" he asked.

"My house for yours!"

The old Colonel turned pale with anger. He walked very quickly back, and came close up to his kinsman.

"Charlie!" he said.

"Injin Charlie,"—with a tipsy nod.

But by this time self-control was returning. "Sell Belles Demoiselles to you?" he said in a high key, and then laughed "Ho, ho, ho!" and rode away.

A cloud, but not a dark one, overshadowed the spirits of Belles Demoiselles’ plantation. The old master, whose beaming presence had always made him a shining Saturn, spinning and sparkling within the bright circle of his daughters, fell into musing fits, started out of frowning reveries, walked often by himself, and heard business from his overseer fretfully.

No wonder. The daughters knew his closeness in trade, and attributed to it his failure to negotiate for the Old Charlie buildings,—so to call them. They began to depreciate Belles Demoiselles. If a north wind blew, it was too cold to ride. If a shower had fallen, it was too muddy to drive. In the morning the garden was wet. In the evening the grasshopper was a burden. Ennuiwas turned into capital; every headache was interpreted a premonition of ague; and when the native exuberance of a flock of ladies without a want or a care burst out in laughter in the father’s face, they spread their French eyes, rolled up their little hands, and with rigid wrists and mock vehemence vowed and vowed again that they only laughed at their misery, and should pine to death unless they could move to the sweet city. "Oh! the theatre! Oh! Orleans Street! Oh! the masquerade! the Place d’Armes! the ball!" and they would call upon Heaven with French irreverence, and fall into each other’s arms, and whirl down the hall singing a waltz, end with a grand collision and fall, and, their eyes streaming merriment, lay the blame on the slippery floor, that would some day be the death of the whole seven.

Three times more the fond father, thus goaded, managed, by accident,—business accident,—to see old Charlie and increase his offer; but in vain. He finally went to him formally.

"Eh?" said the deaf and distant relative. "For what you want him, eh? Why you don’t stay where you halways be ‘appy? Dis is a blame old rat-hole,—good for old Injin Charlie,—da’s all. Why you don’t stay where you be halways ‘appy? Why you don’t buy somewheres else?"

"That’s none of your business," snapped the planter. Truth was, his reasons were unsatisfactory even to himself.

A sullen silence followed. Then Charlie spoke: