trousseau.

It was March now, and Spring-time. The bayou began to sweep down
between its banks less sluggishly than before; it was rising, and
soon would spread over its tiny levees. The doors could be left
open now, though the trees were not yet green; but then down here
the trees do not swell and bud slowly and tease you for weeks
with promises of greenness. Dear no, they simply look
mysterious, and their twigs shake against each other and tell
secrets of the leaves that will soon be born. Then one morning
you awake, and lo, it is a green world! The boughs have suddenly
clothed themselves all in a wondrous garment, and you feel the
blood run riot in your veins out of pure sympathy.

One day in March, it was warm and sweet. Underfoot were violets,
and wee white star flowers peering through the baby-grass. The
sky was blue, with flecks of white clouds reflecting themselves
in the brown bayou. Louisette tripped up the red brick walk with
the Chicago letter in her hand, and paused a minute at the door
to look upon the leaping waters, her eyes dancing.

"I know the bayou must be ready to overflow," went the letter in
the carefully phrased French that the brothers taught at the
parochial school, "and I am glad, for I want to see the dear
maman and my Louisette. I am not so well, and Monsieur le
docteur says it is well for me to go to the South again."

Monsieur le docteur! Sylves' not well! The thought struck a
chill to the hearts of Ma'am Mouton and Louisette, but not for
long. Of course, Sylves' was not well, he needed some of maman's