dispelled the gloom of the tall mantel-piece, and enabled Mademoiselle Aurore's guests and the portrait of her father to see each other dimly. There were very few living operations in the old house that did not go on in the presence of some pictured Angely. They hung in every room against the pale-green walls variegated by damp and mould,—a diminishing line, nourished by constant intermarriage, until Mademoiselle Aurore and Monsieur Félix looked like their first Louisiana progenitors seen through the small end of an opera-glass. Mademoiselle Aurore was talking excitedly. "Ma chère! you will scarcely believe it; I can hardly recover from the surprise myself. Talk of changes; that's a change. Fefé will actually have to send to the city this roulaison for Italians, Italians!"—she pronounced the name with every facial expression of disgust,—"Italians to take off the crops; if poor papa could see that!" She looked with filial reverence at the beardless youth in the gilt frame. Her papa had been painted when at school in France, and died too soon to leave a more parental representation of himself. "But, Stasie, give Mademoiselle
