“Aline, chere, doubtlezz Mr. Chezter will be very please’ to see yo’ li’l’ dress of baptism!  Long time befo’, that was also for me, and my sizter.  That has the lace and embro’derie of a hundred years aggo, that li’l’ dress of baptism.  Show him that!  Oh, that is no trouble, that is a dil-ight! and if you are please’ to enjoy that we’ll show you our two doll’, age’ forty-three!—­bride an’ bri’groom.  Go, you, Yvonne, fedge them.”

The sister rose but lingered:  “Mr. Chezter, you will egscuse if that bride an’ groom don’t look pritty fresh; biccause eighteen seventy-three they have not change’ their clothingg!”

“Cherie,” said Aline, “I think first we better read the manuscript, and then.”

After a breath of hesitation—­“Yes! read firs’ and then.  Alway’ businezz biffo’!”

All went into the garden; not the part Chester had come through, but another only a trifle less pinched, at the back of the house.  A few steps of straight path led them through its stiff ranks of larkspurs, carnations, and the like, to a bower of honeysuckle enclosing two rough wooden benches that faced each other across a six-by-nine goldfish pool.  There they had hardly taken seats when Cupid reappeared bearing to the visitor, on a silver tray, the manuscript.

It was not opened and dived into with the fine flurry of the modern stage.  Its recipient took time to praise the bower and pool, and the sisters laughed gratefully, clutched hands, and merrily called their niece “tantine.”  “You know, Mr. Chezter, ‘tantine’ tha’z ‘auntie,’ an’ tha’z j’uz’ a li’l’ name of affegtion for her, biccause she takes so much mo’ care of us than we of her; you see?  But that bower an’ that li’l’ lake, my sizter an’ me we construc’ them both, that bower an’ that li’l’ lake.”

Without blazoning it they would have him know they had not squandered “tantine’s” hard earnings on architects and contractors.

“And we assure you that was not ladies’ work.  ’Twas not till weeks we achieve’ that.  That geniuz Aline! she was the arshetec’.  And those goldfishes—­like Aline—­are self-su’porting!  We dispose them at the apothecary, Dauphine and Toulouse Street—­ha, ha, ha!  Corinne, tha’z the egstent of commerce we ever been ab’e to make, eh?”

“And now,” said Aline, “the story.”

“Ah, yes,” responded Mlle. Corinne, “at laz’ the manuscrip’!” and Mlle. Yvonne echoed, with a queer guilt in her gayety: 

“The manuscrip’! the myzteriouz manuscrip’!”

But there the gate bell sounded and she sprang to her feet.  Cupid could answer it, but some one must be indoors to greet the caller.

“Yes, you, Yvonne,” the elder sister said, and Aline added:  “We’ll not read till you return.”

“Ah, yes, yes!  Read without me!”

“No-no-no-no-no!  We’ll wait!”

“We’ll wait, Yvonne.”  The sister went.