New Year came and passed; the beautiful garden of Belles Demoiselles put on its spring attire; the seven fair sisters moved from rose to rose; the cloud of discontent had warmed into invisible vapor in the rich sunlight of family affection, and on the common memory the only scar of last year’s wound was old Charlie’s sheer impertinence in crossing the caprice of the De Charleus.  The cup of gladness seemed to fill with the filling of the river.

How high that river was!  Its tremendous current rolled and tumbled and spun along, hustling the long funeral flotillas of drift,—­and how near shore it came!  Men were out day and night, watching the levee.  On windy nights even the old Colonel took part, and grew light-hearted with occupation and excitement, as every minute the river threw a white arm over the levee’s top, as though it would vault over.  But all held fast, and, as the summer drifted in, the water sunk down into its banks and looked quite incapable of harm.

On a summer afternoon of uncommon mildness, old Colonel Jean Albert Henri Joseph De Charleu-Marot, being in a mood for revery, slipped the custody of his feminine rulers and sought the crown of the levee, where it was his wont to promenade.  Presently he sat upon a stone bench,—­a favorite seat.  Before him lay his broad-spread fields; near by, his lordly mansion; and being still,—­perhaps by female contact,—­somewhat sentimental, he fell to musing on his past.  It was hardly worthy to be proud of.  All its morning was reddened with mad frolic, and far toward the meridian it was marred with elegant rioting.  Pride had kept him well-nigh useless, and despised the honors won by valor; gaming had dimmed prosperity; death had taken his heavenly wife; voluptuous ease had mortgaged his lands; and yet his house still stood, his sweet-smelling fields were still fruitful, his name was fame enough; and yonder and yonder, among the trees and flowers, like angels walking in Eden, were the seven goddesses of his only worship.

Just then a slight sound behind him brought him to his feet.  He cast his eyes anxiously to the outer edge of the little strip of bank between the levee’s base and the river.  There was nothing visible.  He paused, with his ear toward the water, his face full of frightened expectation.  Ha!  There came a single plashing sound, like some great beast slipping into the river, and little waves in a wide semi-circle came out from under the bank and spread over the water!

“My God!”

He plunged down the levee and bounded through the low weeds to the edge of the bank.  It was sheer, and the water about four feet below.  He did not stand quite on the edge, but fell upon his knees a couple of yards away, wringing his hands, moaning and weeping, and staring through his watery eyes at a fine, long crevice just discernible under the matted grass, and curving outward on either hand toward the river.

“My God!” he sobbed aloud; “my God!” and even while he called, his God answered:  the tough Bermuda grass stretched and snapped, the crevice slowly became a gape, and softly, gradually, with no sound but the closing of the water at last, a ton or more of earth settled into the boiling eddy and disappeared.