George by George W. Cable
An Extract from
Old Creole Days
IN the heart of New Orleans stands a large four-story brick
building, that has so stood for about three-quarters of a century. Its
rooms are rented to a class of persons occupying them simply for lack
of activity to find better and cheaper quarters elsewhere. With its
gray stucco peeling off in broad patches, it has a solemn look of
gentility in rags, and stands, or, as it were, hangs, about the corner
of two ancient streets, like a faded fop who pretends to be looking for
Under its main archway is a dingy apothecary-shop. On one street is
the bazaar of a modiste en robes et chapeaux and other humble shops; on
the other, the immense batten doors with gratings over the lintels,
barred and bolted with masses of cobwebbed iron, like the door of a
donjon, are overhung by a creaking sign (left by the sheriff), on which
is faintly discernible the mention of wines and liquors. A peep through
one of the shops reveals a square court within, hung with many lines of
wet clothes, its sides hugged by rotten staircases that seem vainly
trying to clamber out of the rubbish.
The neighborhood is one long since given up to fifth-rate shops,
whose masters and mistresses display such enticing mottoes as "Au gagne
petit!" Innumerable children swarm about, and, by some charm of the
place, are not run over, but obstruct the sidewalks playing their
The building is a thing of many windows, where passably
good-looking women appear and disappear, clad in cotton gowns, watering
little outside shelves of flowers and cacti, or hanging canaries'
cages. Their husbands are keepers in wine-warehouses, rent-collectors
for the agents of old Frenchmen who have been laid up to dry in Paris,
custom-house supernumeraries and court-clerks' deputies (for your
second-rate Creole is a great seeker for little offices). A decaying
cornice hangs over, dropping bits of mortar on passers below, like a
boy at a boarding-house.
The landlord is one Kookoo, an ancient Creole of doubtful purity of
blood, who in his landlordly old age takes all suggestions of repairs
as personal insults. He was but a stripling when his father left him
this inheritance, and has grown old and wrinkled and brown, a sort of
periodically animate mummy, in the business. He smokes cascarilla,
wears velveteen, and is as punctual as an executioner.
To Kookoo's venerable property a certain old man used for many
years to come every evening, stumbling through the groups of prattling
children who frolicked about in the early moonlight—whose name no one
knew, but whom all the neighbors designated by the title of 'Sieur
George. It was his wont to be seen taking a straight—too straight—
course toward his home, never careening to right or left, but now
forcing himself slowly forward, as though there were a high gale in
front, and now scudding briskly ahead at a ridiculous little dog-trot,
as if there were a tornado behind. He would go up the main staircase
very carefully, sometimes stopping half-way up for thirty or forty
minutes' doze, but getting to the landing eventually, and tramping into
his room in the second story, with no little elation to find it still
there. Were it not for these slight symptoms of potations, he was such
a one as you would pick out of a thousand for a miser. A year or two
ago he suddenly disappeared.
A great many years ago, when the old house was still new, a young
man with no baggage save a small hair-trunk, came and took the room I
have mentioned and another adjoining. He supposed he might stay fifty
days—and he staid fifty years and over. This was a very fashionable
neighborhood, and he kept the rooms on that account month after month.
But when he had been here about a year something happened to him,
so it was rumored, that greatly changed the tenor of his life; and from
that time on there began to appear in him and to accumulate upon each
other in a manner which became the profound study of Kookoo, the
symptoms of a decay, whose cause baffled the landlord's limited powers
of conjecture for well-nigh half a century. Hints of a duel, of a
reason warped, of disinheritance, and many other unauthorized rumors,
fluttered up and floated off, while he became recluse, and, some say,
began 250 incidentally to betray the unmanly habit which we have
already noticed. His neighbors would have continued neighborly had he
allowed them, but he never let himself be understood, and les
Americains are very droll anyhow; so, as they could do nothing else,
they cut him.
So exclusive he became that (though it may have been for economy)
he never admitted even a housemaid, but kept his apartments himself.
Only the merry serenaders, who in those times used to sing under the
balconies, would now and then give him a crumb of their feast for pure
fun's sake; and after a while, because they could not find out his full
name, called him, at hazard, George—but always prefixing Monsieur.
Afterward, when he began to be careless in his dress, and the fashion
of serenading had passed away, the commoner people dared to shorten the
title to " 'Sieur George."
Many seasons came and went. The city changed like a growing boy;
gentility and fashion went up-town, but 'Sieur George still retained
his rooms. Every one knew him slightly, and bowed, but no one seemed to
know him well, unless it were a brace or so of those convivial fellows
in regulation-blue at little Fort St. Charles. He often came home late,
with one of these on either arm, all singing different tunes and
stopping at every twenty steps to tell secrets. But by and by the fort
was demolished, church and goverment property melted down under the
warm demand for building-lots, the city spread like a ringworm,—and
one day 'Sieur George steps out of the old house in full regimentals!
The Creole neighbors rush bareheaded into the middle of the street,
as though there were an earthquake or a chimney on fire. What to do or
say or think they do not know; they are at their wits' ends, therefore
well-nigh happy. However, there is a German blacksmith's shop near by,
and they watch to see what Jacob will do. Jacob steps into the street
with every eye upon him; he approaches Monsieur—he addresses to him a
few remarks—they shake hands—they engage in some conversation—
Monsieur places his hand on his sword!—now Monsieur passes.
The populace crowd around the blacksmith, children clap their hands
softly and jump up and down on tiptoes of expectation—'Sieur George
is going to the war in Mexico!
"Ah!" says a little girl in the throng, " 'Sieur George's two rooms
will be empty; I find that very droll."
The landlord,—this same Kookoo,—is in the group. He hurls
himself into the house and up the stairs. "Fifteen years pass since he
have been in those room!" He arrives at the door—it is shut—"It is
In short, further investigation revealed that a youngish lady in
black, who had been seen by several neighbors to enter the house, but
had not, of course, been suspected of such remarkable intentions, had,
in company with a middle-aged slave-woman, taken these two rooms, and
now, at the slightly-opened door, proffered a month's rent in advance.
What could a landlord do but smile? Yet there was a pretext left; "the
rooms must need repairs?"—"No, sir; he could look in and see." Joy!
he looked in. All was neatness. The floor unbroken, the walls cracked
but a little, and the cracks closed with new plaster, no doubt by the
jealous hand of 'Sieur George himself. Kookoo's eyes swept sharply
round the two apartments. The furniture was all there. Moreover, there
was Monsieur's little hair-trunk. He should not soon forget that trunk.
One day, fifteen years or more before, he had taken hold of that trunk
to assist Monsieur to arrange his apartment, and Monsieur had drawn his
fist back and cried to him to "drop it!" Mais! there it was, looking
very suspicious in Kookoo's eyes, and the lady's domestic, as tidy as a
yellow-bird, went and sat on it. Could that trunk contain treasure? It
might, for Madame wanted to shut the door, and, in fact, did so.
The lady was quite handsome—had been more so, but was still young
- spoke the beautiful language, and kept, in the inner room, her
discreet and taciturn mulattress, a tall, straight woman, with a fierce
eye, but called by the young Creoles of the neighborhood "confound'
Among les Americaines, where the new neighbor always expects to be
called upon by the older residents, this lady might have made friends
in spite of being as reserved as 'Sieur George; but the reverse being
the Creole custom, and she being well pleased to keep her own company,
chose mystery rather than society.
The poor landlord was sorely troubled; it must not that any thing
de trop take place in his house. He watched the two rooms narrowly, but
without result, save to find that Madame plied her needle for pay,
spent her money for little else besides harpstrings, and took good care
of the little trunk of Monsieur. This espionage was a good turn to the
mistress and maid, for when Kookoo announced that all was proper, no
more was said by outsiders. Their landlord never got but one question
answered by the middle-aged maid:
"Madame, he feared, was a lill' bit embarrass' pour money, eh?"
"Non; Mademoiselle [Mademoiselle, you notice!] had some property,
but did not want to eat it up."
Sometimes lady-friends came, in very elegant private carriages, to
see her, and one or two seemed to beg her—but in vain—to go away
with them; but these gradually dropped off, until lady and servant were
alone in the world. And so years, and the Mexican war, went by.
The volunteers came home; peace reigned, and the city went on
spreading up and down the land; but 'Sieur George did not return. It
overran the country like cocoa-grass. Fields, roads, woodlands, that
were once 'Sieur George's places of retreat from mankind, were covered
all over with little one-story houses in the "Old Third," and fine
residences and gardens up in "Lafayette." Streets went slicing like a
butcher's knife, through old colonial estates, whose first masters
never dreamed of the city reaching them,—and 'Sieur George was still
away. The four-story brick got old and ugly, and the surroundings dim
and dreamy. Theatres, processions, dry-goods stores, government
establishments, banks, hotels, and all spirit of enterprise were gone
to Canal Street and beyond, and the very beggars were gone with them.
The little trunk got very old and bald, and still its owner lingered;
still the lady, somewhat the worse for lapse of time, looked from the
balcony-window in the brief southern twilights, and the maid every
morning shook a worn rug or two over the dangerous-looking railing; and
yet neither had made friends or enemies.
The two rooms, from having been stingily kept at first, were
needing repairs half the time, and the occupants were often moving, now
into one, now back into the other; yet the hair-trunk was seen only by
glimpses, the landlord, to his infinite chagrin, always being a little
too late in offering his services, the women, whether it was light or
heavy, having already moved it. He thought it significant.
Late one day of a most bitter winter,—that season when, to the
ecstatic amazement of a whole city-full of children, snow covered the
streets ankle-deep,—there came a soft tap on the corridor-door of
this pair of rooms. The lady opened it, and beheld a tall, lank,
iron-gray man, a total stranger, standing behind—Monsieur George!
Both men were weather-beaten, scarred, and tattered. Across 'Sieur
George's crown, leaving a long, bare streak through his white hair, was
the souvenir of a Mexican sabre.
The landlord had accompanied them to the door: it was a magnificent
opportunity. Mademoiselle asked them all in, and tried to furnish a
seat to each; but failing, 'Sieur George went straight across the room
and sat on the hair-trunk. The action was so conspicuous, the landlord
laid it up in his penetrative mind.
'Sieur George was quiet, or, as it appeared, quieted. The
mulattress stood near him, and to her he addressed, in an undertone,
most of the little he said, leaving Mademoiselle to his companion. The
stranger was a warm talker, and seemed to please the lady from the
first; but if he pleased, nothing else did. Kookoo, intensely curious,
sought some pretext for staying, but found none. They were, altogether,
an uncongenial company. The lady seemed to think Kookoo had no business
there; 'Sieur George seemed to think the same concerning his companion;
and the few words between Mademoiselle and 'Sieur George were cool
enough. The maid appeared nearly satisfied, but could not avoid casting
an anxious eye at times upon her mistress. Naturally the visit was
The next day but one the two gentlemen came again in better attire.
'Sieur George evidently disliked his companion, yet would not rid
himself of him. The stranger was a gesticulating, stagy fellow, much
Monsieur's junior, an incessant talker in Creole-French, always excited
on small matters and unable to appreciate a great one. Once, as they
were leaving, Kookoo,—accidents will happen,—was under the stairs.
As they began to descend the tall man was speaking: "—better to bury
it,"—the startled landlord heard him say, and held his breath,
thinking of the trunk; but no more was uttered.
A week later they came again.
A week later they came again.
A week later they came yet again!
The landlord's eyes began to open. There must be a courtship in
progress. It was very plain now why 'Sieur George had wished not to be
accompanied by the tall gentleman; but since his visits had become
regular and frequent, it was equally plain why he did not get rid of
him;—because it would not look well to be going and coming too often
alone. Maybe it was only this tender passion that the tall man had
thought "better to bury." Lately there often came sounds of gay
conversation from the first of the two rooms, which had been turned
into a parlor; and as, week after week, the friends came down-stairs,
the tall man was always in high spirits and anxious to embrace 'Sieur
George, who,—"sly dog," thought the landlord,—would try to look
grave, and only smiled in an embarrassed way. "Ah! Monsieur, you tink
to be varry conning; mais you not so conning as Kookoo, no;" and the
inquisitive little man would shake his head and smile, and shake his
head again, as a man has a perfect right to do under the conviction
that he has been for twenty years baffled by a riddle and is learning
to read it at last; he had guessed what was in 'Sieur George's head, he
would by and by guess what was in the trunk.
A few months passed quickly away, and it became apparent to every
eye in or about the ancient mansion that the landlord's guess was not
so bad; in fact, that Mademoiselle was to be married.
On a certain rainy spring afternoon, a single hired hack drove up
to the main entrance of the old house, and after some little bustle and
the gathering of a crowd of damp children about the big doorway, 'Sieur
George, muffled in a newly-repaired overcoat, jumped out and went
up-stairs. A moment later he re-appeared, leading Mademoiselle,
wreathed and veiled, down the stairway. Very fair was Mademoiselle
still. Her beauty was mature,—fully ripe,—maybe a little too much
so, but only a little; and as she came down with the ravishing odor of
bridal flowers floating about her, she seemed the garlanded victim of a
pagan sacrifice. The mulattress in holiday gear followed behind.
The landlord owed a duty to the community. He arrested the maid on
the last step: "Your mistress, she goin' pour marier 'Sieur George? It
make me glad, glad, glad!"
"Marry 'Sieur George? Non, Monsieur."
"Non? Not marrie 'Sieur George? Mais comment?"
"She's going to marry the tall gentleman."
"Diable! ze long gentyman!"—With his hands upon his forehead, he
watched the carriage trundle away. It passed out of sight through the
rain; he turned to enter the house, and all at once tottered under the
weight of a tremendous thought—they had left the trunk! He hurled
himself up-stairs as he had done seven years before, but again—"Ah,
bah!!"—the door was locked, and not a picayune of rent due.
Late that night a small square man, in a wet overcoat, fumbled his
way into the damp entrance of the house, stumbled up the cracking
stairs, unlocked, after many languid efforts, the door of the two
rooms, and falling over the hair-trunk, slept until the morning
sunbeams climbed over the balcony and in at the window, and shone full
on the back of his head. Old Kookoo, passing the door just then, was
surprised to find it slightly ajar—pushed it open silently, and saw,
within, 'Sieur George in the act of rising from his knees beside the
mysterious trunk! He had come back to be once more the tenant of the
'Sieur George, for the second time, was a changed man—changed
from bad to worse; from being retired and reticent, he had come, by
reason of advancing years, or mayhap that which had left the terrible
scar on his face, to be garrulous. When, once in a while, employment
sought him (for he never sought employment), whatever remuneration he
received went its way for something that left him dingy and threadbare.
He now made a lively acquaintance with his landlord, as, indeed, with
every soul in the neighborhood, and told all his adventures in Mexican
prisons and Cuban cities; including full details of the hardships and
perils experienced jointly with the "long gentleman" who had married
Mademoiselle, and who was no Mexican or Cuban, but a genuine
"It was he that fancied me," he said, "not I him; but once he had
fallen in love with me I hadn't the force to cast him off. How Madame
ever should have liked him was one of those woman's freaks that a man
mustn't expect to understand. He was no more fit for her than rags are
fit for a queen; and I could have choked his head off the night he
hugged me round the neck and told me what a suicide she had committed.
But other fine women are committing that same folly every day, only
they don't wait until they're thirty-four or five to do it.—'Why
don't I like him?' Well, for one reason, he's a drunkard!" Here Kookoo,
whose imperfect knowledge of English prevented his intelligent
reception of the story, would laugh as if the joke came in just at this
However, with all Monsieur's prattle, he never dropped a word about
the man he had been before he went away; and the great hair-trunk
puzzle was still the same puzzle, growing greater every day.
Thus the two rooms had been the scene of some events quite queer,
if not really strange; but the queerest that ever they presented, I
guess, was 'Sieur George coming in there one clay, crying like a little
child, and bearing in his arms an infant—a girl—the lovely
offspring of the drunkard whom he so detested, and poor, robbed,
spirit-broken and now dead Madame. He took good care of the orphan, for
orphan she was very soon. The long gentleman was pulled out of the Old
Basin one morning, and 'Sieur George identified the body at the Treme
station. He never hired a nurse—the father had sold the lady's maid
quite out of sight; so he brought her through all the little ills and
around all the sharp corners of baby-life and childhood, without a
human hand to help him, until one evening, having persistently shut his
eyes to it for weeks and months, like one trying to sleep in the
sunshine, he awoke to the realization that she was a woman. It was a
smoky one in November, the first cool day of autumn. The sunset was
dimmed by the smoke of burning prairies, the air was full of the ashes
of grass and reeds, ragged urchins were lugging home sticks of
cordwood, and when a bit of coal fell from a cart in front of Kookoo's
old house, a child was boxed half across the street and robbed of the
booty by a blanchisseuse de fin from over the way.
The old man came home quite steady. He mounted the stairs smartly
without stopping to rest, went with a step unusually light and quiet to
his chamber and sat by the window opening upon the rusty balcony.
It was a small room, sadly changed from what it had been in old
times; but then so was 'Sieur George. Close and dark it was, the walls
stained with dampness and the ceiling full of bald places that showed
the lathing. The furniture was cheap and meagre, including
conspicuously the small, curious-looking hair-trunk. The floor was of
wide slabs fastened down with spikes, and sloping up and down in one or
two broad undulations, as if they had drifted far enough down the
current of time to feel the tide-swell.
However, the floor was clean, the bed well made, the cypress table
in place, and the musty smell of the walls partly neutralized by a
geranium on the window-sill.
He so coming in and sitting down, an unseen person called from the
room adjoining (of which, also, he was still the rentee), to know if he
were he, and being answered in the affirmative, said, "Papa George,
guess who was here to-day?"
"Kookoo, for the rent?"
"Yes, but he will not come back."
"No? why not?"
"Because you will not pay him."
"No? and why not?"
"Because I have paid him."
"Impossible! where did you get the money?"
"Cannot guess?—Mother Nativity."
"What, not for embroidery?"
"No? and why not? Mais oui!"—saying which, and with a pleasant
laugh, the speaker entered the room. She was a girl of sixteen or
thereabout, very beautiful, with very black hair and eyes. A face and
form more entirely out of place you could not have found in the whole
city. She sat herself at his feet, and, with her interlocked hands upon
his knee, and her face, full of childish innocence mingled with womanly
wisdom, turned to his, appearance for a time to take principal part in
a conversation which, of course, could not be overheard in the corridor
Whatever was said, she presently rose, he opened his arms, and she
sat on his knee and kissed him. This done, there was a silence, both
smiling pensively and gazing out over the rotten balcony into the
street. After a while she started up, saying something about the change
of weather, and, slipping away, thrust a match between the bars of the
grate. The old man turned about to the fire, and she from her little
room brought a low sewing-chair and sat beside him, laying her head on
his knee, and he stroking her brow with his brown palm.
And then, in an altered—a low, sad tone—he began a monotonous
Thus they sat, he talking very steadily and she listening, until
all the neighborhood was wrapped in slumber,—all the neighbors, but
Kookoo in his old age had become a great eavesdropper; his ear and
eye took turns at the keyhole that night, for he tells things that were
not intended for outside hearers. He heard the girl sobbing, and the
old man saying, "But you must go now. You cannot stay with me safely or
decently, much as I wish it. The Lord only knows how I'm to bear it, or
where you're to go; but He's your Lord, child, and He'll make a place
for you. I was your grandfather's death; I frittered your poor, dead
mother's fortune away: let that be the last damage I do.
"I have always meant every thing for the best," he added half in
From all Kookoo could gather, he must have been telling her the
very story just recounted. She had dropped quite to the floor, hiding
her face in her hands, and was saying between her sobs, "I cannot go,
Papa George; oh, Papa George, I cannot go!"
Just then 'Sieur George, having kept a good resolution all day, was
encouraged by the orphan's pitiful tones to contemplate the most
senseless act he ever attempted to commit. He said to the sobbing girl
that she was not of his blood; that she was nothing to him by natural
ties; that his covenant was with her grandsire to care for his
offspring; and though it had been poorly kept, it might be breaking it
worse than ever to turn her out upon ever so kind a world.
"I have tried to be good to you all these years. When I took you, a
wee little baby, I took you for better or worse. I intended to do well
by you all your childhood-days, and to do best at last. I thought
surely we should be living well by this time, and you could choose from
a world full of homes and a world full of friends.
"I don't see how I missed it!" Here he paused a moment in
meditation, and presently resumed with some suddenness:
"I thought that education, far better than Mother Nativity has
given you, should have afforded your sweet charms a noble setting; that
good mothers and sisters would be wanting to count you into their
families, and that the blossom of a happy womanhood would open perfect
and full of sweetness.
"I would have given my life for it. I did give it, such as it was;
but it was a very poor concern, I know—my life—and not enough to
buy any good thing.
"I have had a thought of something, but I'm afraid to tell it. It
didn't come to me to-day or yesterday; it has beset me a long time—
The girl gazed into the embers, listening intensely.
"And oh! dearie, if I could only act you to think the same way, you
might stay with me then."
"How long?" she asked, without stirring.
"Oh, as long as heaven should let us. But there is only one
chance," he said, as it were feeling his way, "only one way for us to
stay together. Do you understand me?"
She looked up at the old man with a glance of painful inquiry.
"If you could be—my wife, dearie?"
She uttered a low, distressful cry, and, gliding swiftly into her
room, for the first time in her young life turned the key between them.
And the old man sat and wept.
Then Kookoo, peering, through the keyhole, saw that they had been
looking into the little trunk. The lid was up, but the back was toward
the door, and he could see no more than if it had been closed.
He stooped and stared into the aperture until his dry old knees
were ready to crack. It seemed as if 'Sieur George was stone, only
stone couldn't weep like that.
Every separate bone in his neck was hot with pain. He would have
given ten dollars—ten sweet dollars!—to have seen 'Sieur George get
up and turn that trunk around.
There! 'Sieur George rose up—what a face!
He started toward the bed, and as he came to the trunk he paused,
looked at it, muttered something about "ruin," and something about
"fortune," kicked the lid down and threw himself across the bed.
Small profit to old Kookoo that he went to his own couch; sleep was
not for the little landlord. For well-nigh half a century he had
suspected his tenant of having a treasure hidden in his house, and
to-night he had heard his own admission that in the little trunk was a
fortune. Kookoo had never felt so poor in all his days before. He felt
a Creole's anger, too, that a tenant should be the holder of wealth
while his landlord suffered poverty.
And he knew very well, too, did Kookoo, what the tenant would do.
If he did not know what he kept in the trunk, he knew what he kept
behind it, and he knew he would take enough of it to-night to make him
No one would ever have supposed Kookoo capable of a crime. He was
too fearfully impressed with the extra-hazardous risks of dishonesty;
he was old, too, and weak, and, besides all, intensely a coward.
Nevertheless, while it was yet two or three hours before daybreak, the
sleep-forsaken little man arose, shuffled into his garments, and in his
stocking-feet sought the corridor leading to 'Sieur George's apartment.
The November night, as it often does in that region, had grown warm and
clear; the stars were sparkling like diamonds pendent in the deep blue
heavens, and at every window and lattice and cranny the broad, bright
moon poured down its glittering beams upon the hoary-headed thief, as
he crept along the mouldering galleries and down the ancient corridor
that led to 'Sieur George's chamber.
'Sieur George's door, though ever so slowly opened, protested with
a loud creak. The landlord, wet with cold sweat from head to foot, and
shaking till the floor trembled, paused for several minutes, and then
entered the moon-lit apartment. The tenant, lying as if he had not
moved, was sleeping heavily. And now the poor coward trembled so, that
to kneel before the trunk, without falling, he did not know how. Twice,
thrice, he was near tumbling headlong. He became as cold as ice. But
the sleeper stirred, and the thought of losing his opportunity strung
his nerves up in an instant. He went softly down upon his knees, laid
his hands upon the lid, lifted it, and let in the intense moonlight.
The trunk was full, full, crowded down and running over full, of the
tickets of the Havana Lottery!
A little after daybreak, Kookoo from his window saw the orphan,
pausing on the corner. She stood for a moment, and then dove into the
dense fog which had floated in from the river, and disappeared. He
never saw her again.
But her Lord is taking care of her. Once only she has seen 'Sieur
George. She had been in the belvedere of the house which she now calls
home, looking down upon the outspread city. Far away southward and
westward the great river glistened in the sunset. Along its sweeping
bends the chimneys of a smoking commerce, the magazines of surplus
wealth, the gardens of the opulent, the steeples of a hundred
sanctuaries and thousands on thousands of mansions and hovels covered
the fertile birthright arpents which 'Sieur George, in his fifty years'
stay, had seen tricked away from dull colonial Esaus by their blue-eyed
brethren of the North. Nearer by she looked upon the forlornly silent
region of lowly dwellings, neglected by legislation and shunned by all
lovers of comfort, that once had been the smiling fields of her own
grandsire's broad plantation; and but a little way off, trudging
across the marshy commons, her eye caught sight of 'Sieur George
following the sunset out upon the prairies to find a night's rest in
the high grass.
She turned at once, gathered the skirt of her pink calico uniform,
and, watching her steps through her tears, descended the steep
winding-stair to her frequent kneeling-place under the fragrant candles
of the chapel-altar in Mother Nativity's asylum.
'Sieur George is houseless. He cannot find the orphan. Mother
Nativity seems to know nothing of her. If he could find her now, and
could get from her the use of ten dollars for but three days, he knows
a combination which would repair all the past; it could not fail, he—
thinks. But he cannot find her, and the letters he writes—all
containing the one scheme—disappear in the mail-box, and there's an