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“How-dy?” he said.

I confess that at the moment I was covered with confusion. I who was a teacher of English, and flattered myself that I wrote and spoke it fluently did not understand. Immediately, however, it flashed across my mind that the word was a species of salutation. (Which I finally discovered to be the case.) I bowed again and thanked him, hazarding the reply that my health was excellent, and an inquiry as to the state of Madame’s. He rubbed his hands still more nervously, and answered me in the slow and deliberate mariner I had observed at the Louvre.

“Thank ye,” he said, “she’s doin’ tol’able well, is mother–as well as common. And she’s a-en-joyin’ herself, too. I wish we was all”–

But there he checked himself and glanced hastily about him.

Then he began again:–

“Esmeraldy,” he said,–“Esmeraldy thinks a heap on you. She takes a sight of comfort out of Mis’ Des—-I can’t call your name, but I mean your wife.”

“Madame Desmarres,” I replied, “is rejoiced indeed to have won the friendship of Mademoiselle.”

“Yes,” he proceeded, “she takes a sight of comfort in you and all. An’ she needs comfort, does Esmeraldy.”

There ensued a slight pause which somewhat embarrassed me, for at every pause he regarded me with an air of meek and hesitant appeal.

“She’s a little down-sperrited is Esmeraldy,” he said. “An’,” adding this suddenly in a subdued and fearful tone, “so am I.”

Having said this he seemed to feel that he had overstepped a barrier. He seized the lapel of my coat and held me prisoner, pouring forth his confessions with a faith in my interest by which I was at once-amazed and touched.

“You see it’s this way,” he said,–“it’s this way, Mister. We’re home folks, me an’ Esmeraldy, an’ we’re a long way from home, an’ it sorter seems like we didn’t get no useder to it than we was at first. We’re not like mother. Mother she was raised in a town,–she was raised in ‘Lizabethville,–an’ she allers took to town ways; but me an’ Esmeraldy, we was raised in the mountains, right under the shadder of old Bald, an’ town goes hard with us. Seems like we’re allers a thinkin’ of North Callina. An’ mother she gits outed, which is likely. She says we’d ought to fit ourselves fur our higher pear, an’ I dessay we’d ought,–but you see it goes sorter hard with us. An’ Esmeraldy she has her trouble an’ I can’t help a sympathizin’ with her, fur young folks will be young folks; an’ I was young folks once myself. Once–once I sot a heap o’ store by mother. So you see-how it is.”

“It is very sad, Monsieur,” I answered with gravity. Singular as it may appear, this was not so laughable to me as it might seem. It was so apparent that he did not anticipate ridicule. And my Clelie’s interest in these people also rendered them sacred in my eyes.

“Yes,” he returned, “that’s so; an’ sometimes it’s wuss than you’d think–when mother’s outed. An’ that’s why I’m glad as Mis’ Dimar an’ Esmeraldy is such friends.”

It struck me at this moment that he had some request to make of me. He grasped the lapel of my coat somewhat more tightly as if requiring additional support, and finally bent forward and addressed me with caution, “Do you think as Mis’ Dimar would mind it ef now an’ then I was to step in fur Esmeraldy, an’ set a little–just in a kinder neighborin’ way. Esmeraldy, she says you’re so sosherble. And I haint been sosherble with no one fur–fur a right smart spell. And it seems like I kinder hanker arter it. You’ve no idea, Mister, how lonesome a man can git when he hankers to be sosherble an’ haint no one to be sosherble with. Mother, she says, ‘Go out on the Champs Elizy and promenard,’ and I’ve done it; but some ways it don’t reach the spot. I don’t seem to get sosherble with no one. I’ve spoke to–may be through us speakin’ different languages, an’ not comin’ to a understandin’. I’ve tried it loud an’ I’ve tried it low an’ encouragen’, but some ways we never seemed to get on. An’ er Mis’ Dimar wouldn’t take no exceptions at me a-drop-pin’ in, I feel as ef I should be sorter uplifted–if she’d only allow it once a week or even fewer.”