She gave a cunning chuckle of triumph in thus setting at naught the ends of justice, and in a voice rich and musical with affection, she said, as she gave him a little push: 

“You bettah be gittin’ out o’ dis blazin’ sun.  G’ on home!  I be ’long by-en-by.”

He turned and moved slowly away in the direction of Water Street, where she lived; and she, taking up her basket, shuffled across the market place toward Cheapside, muttering to herself the while: 

“I come mighty nigh gittin’ dar too late, foolin’ long wid dese pies.  Sellin’ him ‘ca’se he don’ wuk!  Umph! if all de men in dis town dat don’ wuk wuz to be tuk up en sole, d’ wouldn’ be ’nough money in de town to buy em!  Don’ I see ’em settin’ ‘roun’ dese taverns f’om mohnin’ till night?”

Nature soon smiles upon her own ravages and strews our graves with flowers, not as memories, but for other flowers when the spring returns.

It was one cool, brilliant morning late in that autumn.  The air blew fresh and invigorating, as though on the earth there were no corruption, no death.  Far southward had flown the plague.  A spectator in the open court square might have seen many signs of life returning to the town.  Students hurried along, talking eagerly.  Merchants met for the first time and spoke of the winter trade.  An old negress, gayly and neatly dressed, came into the market place, and sitting down on a sidewalk displayed her yellow and red apples and fragrant gingerbread.  She hummed to herself an old cradle-song, and in her soft, motherly black eyes shone a mild, happy radiance.  A group of young ragamuffins eyed her longingly from a distance.  Court was to open for the first time since the spring.  The hour was early, and one by one the lawyers passed slowly in.  On the steps of the court-house three men were standing:  Thomas Brown, the sheriff; old Peter Leuba, who had just walked over from his music store on Main Street; and little M. Giron, the French confectioner.  Each wore mourning on his hat, and their voices were low and grave.

“Gentlemen,” the sheriff was saying, “it was on this very spot the day befoah the cholera broke out that I sole ‘im as a vagrant.  An’ I did the meanes’ thing a man can evah do.  I hel’ ’im up to public ridicule foh his weakness an’ made spoht of ’is infirmities.  I laughed at ’is povahty an’ ’is ole clo’es.  I delivahed on ’im as complete an oration of sarcastic detraction as I could prepare on the spot, out of my own meanness an’ with the vulgah sympathies of the crowd.  Gentlemen, if I only had that crowd heah now, an’ ole King Sol’mon standin’ in the midst of it, that I might ask ’im to accept a humble public apology, offahed from the heaht of one who feels himself unworthy to shake ‘is han’!  But gentlemen, that crowd will nevah reassemble.  Neahly ev’ry man of them is dead, an’ ole King Sol’mon buried them.”

“He buried my friend Adolphe Xaupi,” said Francois Giron, touching his eyes with his handkerchief.