for her only child, the pity of a wife for her childless husband. She smiled and touched Margaret's pale cheek with her rosy lips,—a woman who had loved and suffered, and was strong to bear the burden of her grief so that its shadow might not darken the life of any other human creature.
To these two fair women came Philip Rondelet, the old planter leaning on his arm, Colonel Lagrange, General Ruysdale, Bouton de Rose, and Darius Harden following. Soon after was served a breakfast of honey, whose sweetness had been gathered from the flowers of the garden, of butter and cream, for which a pair of black-nosed Jerseys cropping the grass near by were responsible, of fish caught in the neighboring bayou, eggs from the farm-yard, bread light and sweet as the most fastidious sybarite could desire, and coffee, that Creole coffee, of unsurpassed fragrance and flavor. They lingered over the table, for it was the last meal they were to take together, and host and guests were equally sorry that the brief visit had come to an end.
The quiet of the morning was suddenly broken by the faint echo of a whistle. "Alack! it is the steamer," cried Mrs. Harden; "that means that we must leave this enchanting place, perhaps forever."
