"Mademoiselle must be very careful," he said in the softest and
most correct French. "The tide is in and the water very rough.
It would be very difficult to swim out there to-night."

Annette murmured confused thanks, which were supplemented by
Philip's hearty tones. She was silent until they reached the
pavilion at the end of the pier. The semi-darkness was
unrelieved by lantern or light. The strong wind wafted the
strains from a couple of mandolins, a guitar, and a tenor voice
stationed in one corner to sundry engrossed couples in sundry
other corners. Philip found an untenanted nook and they
ensconced themselves therein.

"Do you know there's something mysterious about that fisherman?"
said Annette, during a lull in the wind.

"Because he did not let you go over?" inquired Philip.

"No; he spoke correctly, and with the accent that goes only with
an excellent education."

Philip shrugged his shoulders. "That's nothing remarkable. If
you stay about Pass Christian for any length of time, you'll find
more things than perfect French and courtly grace among fishermen
to surprise you. These are a wonderful people who live across
the Lake."

Annette was lolling in the hammock under the big catalpa-tree
some days later, when the gate opened, and Natalie's big