“Old Charlie,” said he, gazing fondly at his house, “You and me is both old, eh?”

“Yaas,” said the stolid Charlie.

“And we has both been bad enough in our times eh, Charlie?”

Charlie, surprised at the tender tone, repeated “Yaas.”

“And you and me is mighty close?”

“Blame close, yaas.”

“But you never know me to cheat, old man!”

“No,”—­impassively.

“And do you think I would cheat you now?”

“I dunno,” said Charlie.  “I don’t believe.”

“Well, old man, old man,”—­his voice began to quiver,—­“I sha’n’t cheat you now.  My God!—­old man, I tell you—­you better not make the trade!”

“Because for what?” asked Charlie in plain anger; but both looked quickly toward the house!  The Colonel tossed his hands wildly in the air, rushed forward a step or two, and giving one fearful scream of agony and fright, fell forward on his face in the path.  Old Charlie stood transfixed with horror.  Belles Demoiselles, the realm of maiden beauty, the home of merriment, the house of dancing, all in the tremor and glow of pleasure, suddenly sunk, with one short, wild wail of terror—­sunk, sunk, down, down, down, into the merciless, unfathomable flood of the Mississippi.

Twelve long months were midnight to the mind of the childless father; when they were only half gone, he took his bed; and every day, and every night, old Charlie, the “low-down,” the “fool,” watched him tenderly, tended him lovingly, for the sake of his name, his misfortunes, and his broken heart.  No woman’s step crossed the floor of the sick-chamber, whose western dormer-windows overpeered the dingy architecture of old Charlie’s block; Charlie and a skilled physician, the one all interest, the other all gentleness, hope, and patience—­these only entered by the door; but by the window came in a sweet-scented evergreen vine, transplanted from the caving bank of Belles Demoiselles.  It caught the rays of sunset in its flowery net and let then softly in upon the sick man’s bed; gathered the glancing beams of the moon at midnight, and often wakened the sleeper to look, with his mindless eyes, upon their pretty silver fragments strewn upon the floor.

By and by there seemed—­there was—­a twinkling dawn of returning reason.  Slowly, peacefully, with an increase unseen from day to day, the light of reason came into the eyes, and speech became coherent; but withal there came a failing of the wrecked body, and the doctor said that monsieur was both better and worse.

One evening, as Charlie sat by the vine-clad window with his fireless pipe in his hand, the old Colonel’s eyes fell full upon his own, and rested there.

“Charl—­,” he said with an effort, and his delighted nurse hastened to the bedside and bowed his best ear.  There was an unsuccessful effort or two, and then he whispered, smiling with sweet sadness,—­

“We didn’t trade.”