Great branches bent down almost to the water，—quiteeven with high water，—covered with forests of oak， parasites，lichens， and with vines that swept our heads as we passedunder them， drooping now and then to trail in the water， aplaything for the fishes， and a landing-place for amphibiousinsects. The sun speckled the water with its flickering patterns，showering us with light and heat. We have no spring suns； oursun， even in December， is a summer one.
And so， with all its grace of curve and bend， and so—thedeion is longer than the voyage—we come to our firststopping-place. To the side， in front of the well-kept fertilefields， like a proud little showman， stood the little house. Itspointed shingle roof covered it like the top of a chafing-dish，reaching down to the windows， which peeped out from underit like little eyes.
A woman came out of the door to meet us. She had hadtime during our graceful winding approach to prepare for us.
What an irrevocable vow to old maidenhood！ At least twentyfive，almost a possible grandmother， according to Acadiancomputation， and well in the grip of advancing years. She wasdressed in a stiff， dark red calico gown， with a white apron.
Her black hair， smooth and glossy under a varnish of grease，was plaited high in the back， and dropped regular ringlets，six in all， over her forehead. That was the epoch when hercalamity came to her， when the hair was worn in that fashion.
A woman seldom alters her coiffure after a calamity of acertain nature happens to her. The figure had taken a compactrigidity， an unfaltering inflexibility， all the world away fromthe elasticity of matronhood； and her eyes were clear andfixed like her figure， neither falling， nor rising， nor puzzlingunder other eyes. Her lips， her hands， her slim feet， wereconspicuously single， too， in their intent， neither reaching， norfeeling， nor running for those other lips， hands， and feet whichshould have doubled their single life.
That was Adorine Mérionaux， otherwise the most industriousAcadian and the best cottonade-weaver in the parish. It hadbeen short， her story. A woman’s love is still with those peopleher story. She was thirteen when she met him. That is the agefor an Acadian girl to meet him， because， you know， the largefamilies—the thirteen， fourteen， fifteen， twenty children—takeup the years； and when one wishes to know one’s great-greatgrandchildren（which is the dream of the Acadian girl） one
must not delay one’s story.
She had one month to love him in， and in one week theywere to have the wedding. The Acadians believe that marriagemust come au point， as cooks say their sauces must be served.
Standing on the bayou-bank in front of the Mérionaux， onecould say “Good day” with the eyes to the Zévérin Theriots—that was the name of the parents of the young bridegroom.
Looking under the branches of the oaks， one could see acrossthe prairie，—prairie and sea-marsh it was，—and clearlydistinguish another little red-washed house like the Mérionaux，with a painted roof hanging over the windows， and a staircasegoing up outside to the garret. With the sun shining in theproper direction， one might distinguish more， and with loveshining like the sun in the eyes， one might see， one mightsee—a heart full.
It was only the eyes， however， which could make such aquick voyage to the Zévérin Theriots； a skiff had a long day’sjourney to reach them. The bayou sauntered along over thecountry like a negro on a Sunday’s pleasuring， trusting to Godfor time， and to the devil for means.
Oh， nothing can travel quickly over a bayou！ Ask any onewho has waited on a bayou-bank for a physician or a life-anddeathmessage. Thought refuses to travel and turn and doubleover it； thought， like the eye， takes the shortest cut—straightover the sea-marsh； and in the spring of the year， when thelilies are in bloom， thought could not take a more heavenlyway， even from beloved to beloved.
It was the week before marriage， that week when， more thanone’s whole life afterward， one’s heart feels most longing—most—well， in fact， it was the week before marriage. FromSunday to Sunday， that was all the time to be passed. Adorine—women live through this week by the grace of God， or perhapsthey would be as unreasonable as the men—Adorine couldlook across the prairie to the little red roof during the day，and could think across it during the night， and get up beforeday to look across again—longing， longing all the time. Ofcourse one must supply all this from one’s own imagination orexperience.
But Adorine could sing， and she sang. One might hear， in afavorable wind， a gunshot， or the barking of a dog from oneplace to the other， so that singing， as to effect， was nothingmore than the voicing of her looking and thinking and longing.
When one loves， it is as if everything was known of andseen by the other； not only all that passes in the head and heart，which would in all conscience be more than enough to occupythe other， but the talking， the dressing， the conduct. It was thenthat the back hair was braided and the front curled more andmore beautifully every day， and that the calico dresses becamestiffer and stiffer， and the white crochet lace collar broaderand lower in the neck. At thirteen she was beautiful enoughto startle one， they say， but that was nothing； she spent timeand care upon these things， as if， like other women， her fateseriously depended upon them. There is no self-abnegationlike that of a woman in love.
