She was silent a moment, watching with half-closed lids a
dejected-looking hunter on the other bank, and a lean dog who
trailed through the reeds behind him with drooping tail. Then
she asked:

"And I--what will become of me?"

"You, Athanasia? There is a great future before you, little
woman, and I and my love can only mar it. Try to forget me and
go your way. I am only the epitome of unhappiness and
ill-success."

But she laughed and would have none of it.

Will you ever forget that day, Athanasia? How the little gamins,
Creole throughout, came half shyly near the log, fishing, and
exchanging furtive whispers and half-concealed glances at the
silent couple. Their angling was rewarded only by a little black
water-moccasin that wriggled and forked its venomous red tongue
in an attempt to exercise its death-dealing prerogative. This
Athanasia insisted must go back into its native black waters, and
paid the price the boys asked that it might enjoy its freedom.
The gamins laughed and chattered in their soft patois; the Don
smiled tenderly upon Athanasia, and she durst not look at the
reeds as she talked, lest their crescendo sadness yield a
foreboding. Just then a wee girl appeared, clad in a multi-hued
garment, evidently a sister to the small fishermen. Her keen
black eyes set in a dusky face glanced sharply and suspiciously
at the group as she clambered over the wet embankment, and it