inhabitants every evening at five o'clock. It is the hour for
the arrival of the "New Camelia," the happening of the day. As
early as four o'clock the trailing smoke across the horizon of
the treacherous Lake Pontchartrain appears, and Mandeville knows
then that the hour for its siesta has passed, and that it must
array itself in its coolest and fluffiest garments, and go down
to the pier to meet this sole connection between itself and the
outside world; the little, puffy, side-wheel steamer that comes
daily from New Orleans and brings the mail and the news.

On this particular day there was an air of suppressed excitement
about the little knot of people which gathered on the pier. To
be sure, there were no outward signs to show that anything
unusual had occurred. The small folks danced with the same glee
over the worn boards, and peered down with daring excitement into
the perilous depths of the water below. The sun, fast sinking in
a gorgeous glow behind the pines of the Tchefuncta region far
away, danced his mischievous rays in much the same manner that he
did every other day. But there was a something in the air, a
something not tangible, but mysterious, subtle. You could catch
an indescribable whiff of it in your inner senses, by the
half-eager, furtive glances that the small crowd cast at La
Juanita.

"Gar, gar, le bateau!" said one dark-tressed mother to the
wide-eyed baby. "Et, oui," she added, in an undertone to her
companion. "Voila, La Juanita!"

La Juanita, you must know, was the pride of Mandeville, the
adored, the admired of all, with her petite, half-Spanish,