Readjusting her veil, Manuela passed out the little wicket gate,
treading on air. Again the sun shone, and the breath of the
swamps came as healthful sea-breeze unto her nostrils. She
fairly flew in the direction of St. Rocque.

There were quite a number of persons entering the white gates of
the cemetery, for this was Friday, when all those who wish good
luck pray to the saint, and wash their steps promptly at twelve
o'clock with a wondrous mixture to guard the house. Manuela
bought a candle from the keeper of the little lodge at the
entrance, and pausing one instant by the great sun-dial to see if
the heavens and the hour were propitious, glided into the tiny
chapel, dim and stifling with heavy air from myriad wish-candles
blazing on the wide table before the altar-rail. She said her
prayer and lighting her candle placed it with the others.

Mon Dieu! how brightly the sun seemed to shine now, she thought,
pausing at the door on her way out. Her small finger-tips, still
bedewed with holy water, rested caressingly on a gamin's head.
The ivy which enfolds the quaint chapel never seemed so green;
the shrines which serve as the Way of the Cross never seemed so
artistic; the baby graves, even, seemed cheerful.

Theophile called Sunday. Manuela's heart leaped. He had been
spending his Sundays with Claralie. His stay was short and he
was plainly bored. But Manuela knelt to thank the good St.
Rocque that night, and fondled the charm about her slim waist.
There came a box of bonbons during the week, with a decorative
card all roses and fringe, from Theophile; but being a Creole,
and therefore superstitiously careful, and having been reared by