regatta, such a one as Mandeville had never seen! There were to
be boats from Madisonville and Amite, from Lewisburg and
Covington, and even far-away Nott's Point. There was to be a
Class A and Class B and Class C, and the little French girls of
the town flaunted their ribbons down the one oak-shaded,
lake-kissed street, and dared anyone to say theirs were not the
favourite colours.

In Class A was entered, "La Juanita,' captain Mercer Grangeman,
colours pink and gold." Her name, her colours; what impudence!

Of course, not being a Mandevillian, you could not understand the
shame of Grandpere Colomes at this. Was it not bad enough for
his petite Juanita, his Spanish blossom, his hope of a family
that had held itself proudly aloof from "dose Americain" from
time immemorial, to have smiled upon this Mercer, this pale-eyed
youth? Was it not bad enough for her to demean herself by
walking upon the pier with him? But for a boat, his boat, "un
bateau Americain," to be named La Juanita! Oh, the shame of it!
Grandpere Colomes prayed a devout prayer to the Virgin that "La
Juanita" should be capsized.

Monday came, clear and blue and stifling. The waves of hot air
danced on the sands and adown the one street merrily. Glassily
calm lay the Pontchartrain, heavily still hung the atmosphere.
Madame Alvarez cast an inquiring glance toward the sky.
Grandpere Colomes chuckled. He had not lived on the shores of
the treacherous Lake Pontchartrain for nothing. He knew its
every mood, its petulances and passions; he knew this glassy
warmth and what it meant. Chuckling again and again, he stepped