Transcriber's Notes: SO_3HO = 3 is subscripted [=u] = macron above "u"

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 GEORGE W. CABLE'S WRITINGS

 BONAVENTURE. A Prose Pastoral of Arcadian Louisiana. 12mo, $1. 25. DR. SEVIER. 12mo, $1. 25. THE GRANDISSIMES. A Story of Creole Life. 12mo, $1. 25. OLD CREOLE DAYS. 12mo, $1. 25. STRANGE TRUE STORIES OF LOUISIANA. Illustrated. 12mo, $2. 00. *** _New Uniform Edition of the above five volumes, cloth, in a box, $6. 00. _

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 JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER, 12mo, $1. 50. OLD CREOLE DAYS. Cameo Edition with Etching, $1. 25. OLD CREOLE DAYS. 2 vols. 16mo, paper, each 30 cts. MADAME DELPHINE. 75 cts. THE CREOLES OF LOUISIANA. Illus. Small 4to, $2. 50. THE SILENT SOUTH. 12mo, $1. 00. 

 DR. SEVIER

 BY GEORGE W. CABLE

 AUTHOR OF "OLD CREOLE DAYS, " "THE GRANDISSIMES, " "MADAME DELPHINE, " ETC. 

 NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1897

 Copyright, 1883 and 1884 BY GEORGE W. CABLE

 _All rights reserved_

 TROW'S PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY, NEW YORK. 

 TO MY FRIEND MARION A. BAKER

 CONTENTS. 

 Chapter Page I. --The Doctor 5 II. --A Young Stranger 10 III. --His Wife 17 IV. --Convalescence and Acquaintance 22 V. --Hard Questions 29 VI. --Nesting 34 VII. --Disappearance 45 VIII. --A Question of Book-keeping 52 IX. --When the Wind Blows 61 X. --Gentles and Commons 66 XI. --A Pantomime 73 XII. --"She's all the World" 81 XIII. --The Bough Breaks 87 XIV. --Hard Speeches and High Temper 94 XV. --The Cradle Falls 99 XVI. --Many Waters 107 XVII. --Raphael Ristofalo 118 XVIII. --How He Did It 127 XIX. --Another Patient 134 XX. --Alice 138 XXI. --The Sun at Midnight 142 XXII. --Borrower Turned Lender 160 XXIII. --Wear and Tear 169 XXIV. --Brought to Bay 177 XXV. --The Doctor Dines Out 184 XXVI. --The Trough of the Sea 194 XXVII. --Out of the Frying-Pan 207 XXVIII. --"Oh, where is my Love?" 215 XXIX. --Release. --Narcisse 224 XXX. --Lighting Ship 233 XXXI. --At Last 243 XXXII. --A Rising Star 248 XXXIII. --Bees, Wasps, and Butterflies 258 XXXIV. --Toward the Zenith 262 XXXV. --To Sigh, yet Feel no Pain 268 XXXVI. --What Name? 275 XXXVII. --Pestilence 280 XXXVIII. --"I must be Cruel only to be Kind" 286 XXXIX. --"Pettent Prate" 294 XL. --Sweet Bells Jangled 300 XLI. --Mirage 310 XLII. --Ristofalo and the Rector 317 XLIII. --Shall she Come or Stay? 324 XLIV. --What would you Do? 329 XLV. --Narcisse with News 335 XLVI. --A Prison Memento 340 XLVII. --Now I Lay Me-- 345 XLVIII. --Rise up, my Love, my Fair One! 351 XLIX. --A Bundle of Hopes 357 L. --Fall In! 366 LI. --Blue Bonnets over the Border 372 LII. --A Pass through the Lines 378 LIII. --Try Again 384 LIV. --"Who Goes There?" 394 LV. --Dixie 412 LVI. --Fire and Sword 425 LVII. --Almost in Sight 435 LVIII. --A Golden Sunset 445 LIX. --Afterglow 454 LX. --"Yet shall he live" 465 LXI. --Peace 470

DR. SEVIER. 

CHAPTER I. 

THE DOCTOR. 

The main road to wealth in New Orleans has long been Carondeletstreet. There you see the most alert faces; noses--it seems toone--with more and sharper edge, and eyes smaller and brighterand with less distance between them than one notices in otherstreets. It is there that the stock and bond brokers hurry to andfro and run together promiscuously--the cunning and the simple, the headlong and the wary--at the four clanging strokes of theStock Exchange gong. There rises the tall façade of the CottonExchange. Looking in from the sidewalk as you pass, you see itsmain hall, thronged but decorous, the quiet engine-room of thesurrounding city's most far-reaching occupation, and at the hall'sfarther end you descry the "Future Room, " and hear the unearthlyramping and bellowing of the bulls and bears. Up and down thestreet, on either hand, are the ship-brokers and insurers, and inthe upper stories foreign consuls among a multitude of lawyers andnotaries. 

In 1856 this street was just assuming its present character. The cottonmerchants were making it their favorite place of commercial domicile. The open thoroughfare served in lieu of the present exchanges; men madefortunes standing on the curb-stone, and during bank hours the sidewalkswere perpetually crowded with cotton factors, buyers, brokers, weighers, reweighers, classers, pickers, pressers, and samplers, and the air wasladen with cotton quotations and prognostications. 

Number 3-1/2, second floor, front, was the office of Dr. Sevier. Thisoffice was convenient to everything. Immediately under its windows laythe sidewalks where congregated the men who, of all in New Orleans, could best afford to pay for being sick, and least desired to die. Canalstreet, the city's leading artery, was just below, at the near left-handcorner. Beyond it lay the older town, not yet impoverished in thosedays, --the French quarter. A single square and a half off at the right, and in plain view from the front windows, shone the dazzling white wallsof the St. Charles Hotel, where the nabobs of the river plantationscame and dwelt with their fair-handed wives in seasons of peculiaranticipation, when it is well to be near the highest medical skill. Inthe opposite direction a three minutes' quick drive around the uppercorner and down Common street carried the Doctor to his ward in thegreat Charity Hospital, and to the school of medicine, where he filledthe chair set apart to the holy ailments of maternity. Thus, as it were, he laid his left hand on the rich and his right on the poor; and he wasnot left-handed. 

Not that his usual attitude was one of benediction. He stood straight upin his austere pure-mindedness, tall, slender, pale, sharp of voice, keen of glance, stern in judgment, aggressive in debate, and fixedlyuntender everywhere, except--but always except--in the sick chamber. His inner heart was all of flesh; but his demands for the rectitude ofmankind pointed out like the muzzles of cannon through the embrasures ofhis virtues. To demolish evil!--that seemed the finest of aims; and evenas a physician, that was, most likely, his motive until later years anda better self-knowledge had taught him that to do good was still finerand better. He waged war--against malady. To fight; to stifle; to cutdown; to uproot; to overwhelm;--these were his springs of action. Thattheir results were good proved that his sentiment of benevolence wasstrong and high; but it was well-nigh shut out of sight by thatimpatience of evil which is very fine and knightly in youngest manhood, but which we like to see give way to kindlier moods as the earlier heatof the blood begins to pass. 

He changed in later years; this was in 1856. To "resist not evil" seemedto him then only a rather feeble sort of knavery. To face it in itsnakedness, and to inveigh against it in high places and low, seemed theconsummation of all manliness; and manliness was the key-note of hiscreed. There was no other necessity in this life. 

"But a man must live, " said one of his kindred, to whom, truth to tell, he had refused assistance. 

"No, sir; that is just what he can't do. A man must die! So, while helives, let him be a man!"

How inharmonious a setting, then, for Dr. Sevier, was 3-1/2 Carondeletstreet! As he drove, each morning, down to that point, he had to passthrough long, irregular files of fellow-beings thronging eithersidewalk, --a sadly unchivalric grouping of men whose daily and yearlylife was subordinated only and entirely to the getting of wealth, andwhose every eager motion was a repetition of the sinister old maxim that"Time is money. "

"It's a great deal more, sir; it's life!" the Doctor always retorted. 

Among these groups, moreover, were many who were all too well famedfor illegitimate fortune. Many occupations connected with the handlingof cotton yielded big harvests in perquisites. At every jog of theDoctor's horse, men came to view whose riches were the outcome ofsemi-respectable larceny. It was a day of reckless operation; much ofthe commerce that came to New Orleans was simply, as one might say, beached in Carondelet street. The sight used to keep the long, thin, keen-eyed doctor in perpetual indignation. 

"Look at the wreckers!" he would say. 

It was breakfast at eight, indignation at nine, dyspepsia at ten. 

So his setting was not merely inharmonious; it was damaging. He grewsore on the whole matter of money-getting. 

"Yes, I have money. But I don't go after it. It comes to me, because Iseek and render service for the service's sake. It will come to anybodyelse the same way; and why should it come any other way?"

He not only had a low regard for the motives of most seekers of wealth;he went further, and fell into much disbelief of poor men's needs. Forinstance, he looked upon a man's inability to find employment, or upona poor fellow's run of bad luck, as upon the placarded woes of ahurdy-gurdy beggar. 

"If he wants work he will find it. As for begging, it ought to be easierfor any true man to starve than to beg. "

The sentiment was ungentle, but it came from the bottom of his beliefconcerning himself, and a longing for moral greatness in all men. 

"However, " he would add, thrusting his hand into his pocket and bringingout his purse, "I'll help any man to make himself useful. And thesick--well, the sick, as a matter of course. Only I must know what I'mdoing. "

Have some of us known Want? To have known her--though to love herwas impossible--is "a liberal education. " The Doctor was learned;but this acquaintanceship, this education, he had never got. Hence hisuntenderness. Shall we condemn the fault? Yes. And the man? We have notthe face. To be _just_, which he never knowingly failed to be, and atthe same time to feel tenderly for the unworthy, to deal kindly with theerring, --it is a double grace that hangs not always in easy reach evenof the tallest. The Doctor attained to it--but in later years; meantime, this story--which, I believe, had he ever been poor would never havebeen written. 

CHAPTER II. 

A YOUNG STRANGER. 

In 1856 New Orleans was in the midst of the darkest ten years of herhistory. Yet she was full of new-comers from all parts of the commercialworld, --strangers seeking livelihood. The ravages of cholera andyellow-fever, far from keeping them away, seemed actually to draw them. In the three years 1853, '54, and '55, the cemeteries had received overthirty-five thousand dead; yet here, in 1856, besides shiploads ofEuropean immigrants, came hundreds of unacclimated youths, from allparts of the United States, to fill the wide gaps which they imaginedhad been made in the ranks of the great exporting city's clerking force. 

Upon these pilgrims Dr. Sevier cast an eye full of interest, and oftenof compassion hidden under outward impatience. "Who wants to see, " hewould demand, "men--_and women_--increasing the risks of this uncertainlife?" But he was also full of respect for them. There was a certainnobility rightly attributable to emigration itself in the abstract. It was the cutting loose from friends and aid, --those sweet-namedtemptations, --and the going forth into self-appointed exile and intodangers known and unknown, trusting to the help of one's own right handto exchange honest toil for honest bread and raiment. His eyes kindledto see the goodly, broad, red-cheeked fellows. Sometimes, though, hesaw women, and sometimes tender women, by their side; and that sighttouched the pathetic chord of his heart with a rude twangle that vexedhim. 

It was on a certain bright, cool morning early in October that, as hedrove down Carondelet street toward his office, and one of those littlewhite omnibuses of the old Apollo-street line, crowding in before hiscarriage, had compelled his driver to draw close in by the curb-stoneand slacken speed to a walk, his attention chanced to fall upon a youngman of attractive appearance, glancing stranger-wise and eagerly atsigns and entrances while he moved down the street. Twice, in the momentof the Doctor's enforced delay, he noticed the young stranger makeinquiry of the street's more accustomed frequenters, and that in eachcase he was directed farther on. But, the way opened, the Doctor's horseswitched his tail and was off, the stranger was left behind, and thenext moment the Doctor stepped across the sidewalk and went up thestairs of Number 3-1/2 to his office. Something told him--we are apt tofall into thought on a stair-way--that the stranger was looking for aphysician. 

He had barely disposed of the three or four waiting messengers thatarose from their chairs against the corridor wall, and was still readingthe anxious lines left in various handwritings on his slate, when theyoung man entered. He was of fair height, slenderly built, with softauburn hair, a little untrimmed, neat dress, and a diffident, yetexpectant and courageous, face. 

"Dr. Sevier?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Doctor, my wife is very ill; can I get you to come at once and seeher?"

"Who is her physician?"

"I have not called any; but we must have one now. "

"I don't know about going at once. This is my hour for being in theoffice. How far is it, and what's the trouble?"

"We are only three squares away, just here in Custom-house street. "The speaker began to add a faltering enumeration of some very gravesymptoms. The Doctor noticed that he was slightly deaf; he uttered hiswords as though he did not hear them. 

"Yes, " interrupted Dr. Sevier, speaking half to himself as he turnedaround to a standing case of cruel-looking silver-plated things onshelves; "that's a small part of the penalty women pay for the doubtfulhonor of being our mothers. I'll go. What is your number? But you hadbetter drive back with me if you can. " He drew back from the glass case, shut the door, and took his hat. 

"Narcisse!"

On the side of the office nearest the corridor a door let into ahall-room that afforded merely good space for the furniture needed by asingle accountant. The Doctor had other interests besides those of hisprofession, and, taking them altogether, found it necessary, or at leastconvenient, to employ continuously the services of a person to keep hisaccounts and collect his bills. Through the open door the book-keepercould be seen sitting on a high stool at a still higher desk, --a youngman of handsome profile and well-knit form. At the call of his name heunwound his legs from the rounds of the stool and leaped into theDoctor's presence with a superlatively high-bred bow. 

"I shall be back in fifteen minutes, " said the Doctor. "Come, Mr. ----, " and went out with the stranger. 

Narcisse had intended to speak. He stood a moment, then lifted thelast half inch of a cigarette to his lips, took a long, meditativeinhalation, turned half round on his heel, dashed the remnant withfierce emphasis into a spittoon, ejected two long streams of smoke fromhis nostrils, and extending his fist toward the door by which the Doctorhad gone out, said:--

"All right, ole hoss!" No, not that way. It is hard to give hispronunciation by letter. In the word "right" he substituted an a for ther, sounding it almost in the same instant with the i, yet distinct fromit: "All a-ight, ole hoss!"

Then he walked slowly back to his desk, with that feeling of reliefwhich some men find in the renewal of a promissory note, twined his legsagain among those of the stool, and, adding not a word, resumed his pen. 

The Doctor's carriage was hurrying across Canal street. 

"Dr. Sevier, " said the physician's companion, "I don't know what yourcharges are"--

"The highest, " said the Doctor, whose dyspepsia was gnawing him justthen with fine energy. The curt reply struck fire upon the young man. 

"I don't propose to drive a bargain, Dr. Sevier!" He flushed angrilyafter he had spoken, breathed with compressed lips, and winked savagely, with the sort of indignation that school-boys show to a harsh master. 

The physician answered with better self-control. 

"What do you propose?"

"I was going to propose--being a stranger to you, sir--to pay inadvance. " The announcement was made with a tremulous, but triumphant, _hauteur_, as though it must cover the physician with mortification. Thespeaker stretched out a rather long leg, and, drawing a pocket-book, produced a twenty-dollar piece. 

The Doctor looked full in his face with impatient surprise, then turnedhis eyes away again as if he restrained himself, and said, in a subduedtone:--

"I would rather you had haggled about the price. "

"I don't hear"--said the other, turning his ear. 

The Doctor waved his hand:--

"Put that up, if you please. "

The young stranger was disconcerted. He remained silent for a moment, wearing a look of impatient embarrassment. He still extended the piece, turning it over and over with his thumb-nail as it lay on his fingers. 

"You don't know me, Doctor, " he said. He got another cruel answer. 

"We're getting acquainted, " replied the physician. 

The victim of the sarcasm bit his lip, and protested, by an unconscious, sidewise jerk of the chin:--

"I wish you'd"--and he turned the coin again. 

The physician dropped an eagle's stare on the gold. 

"I don't practise medicine on those principles. "

"But, Doctor, " insisted the other, appeasingly, "you can make anexception if you will. Reasons are better than rules, my old professorused to say. I am here without friends, or letters, or credentials ofany sort; this is the only recommendation I can offer. "

"Don't recommend you at all; anybody can do that. "

The stranger breathed a sigh of overtasked patience, smiled with abaffled air, seemed once or twice about to speak, but doubtful what tosay, and let his hand sink. 

"Well, Doctor, "--he rested his elbow on his knee, gave the piece onemore turn over, and tried to draw the physician's eye by a look ofboyish pleasantness, --"I'll not ask you to take pay in advance, but Iwill ask you to take care of this money for me. Suppose I should loseit, or have it stolen from me, or--Doctor, it would be a real comfort tome if you would. "

"I can't help that. I shall treat your wife, and then send in my bill. "The Doctor folded arms and appeared to give attention to his driver. But at the same time he asked:--

"Not subject to epilepsy, eh?"

"No, sir!" The indignant shortness of the retort drew no sign ofattention from the Doctor; he was silently asking himself what thisnonsense meant. Was it drink, or gambling, or a confidence game? Orwas it only vanity, or a mistake of inexperience? He turned his headunexpectedly, and gave the stranger's facial lines a quick, thoroughexamination. It startled them from a look of troubled meditation. Thephysician as quickly turned away again. 

"Doctor, " began the other, but added no more. 

The physician was silent. He turned the matter over once more in hismind. The proposal was absurdly unbusiness-like. That his part in itmight look ungenerous was nothing; so his actions were right, he ratherliked them to bear a hideous aspect: that was his war-paint. There wasthat in the stranger's attitude that agreed fairly with his own theoriesof living. A fear of debt, for instance, if that was genuine it wasgood; and, beyond and better than that, a fear of money. He began to bemore favorably impressed. 

"Give it to me, " he said, frowning; "mark you, this is your way, "--hedropped the gold into his vest-pocket, --"it isn't mine. "

The young man laughed with visible relief, and rubbed his knee with hissomewhat too delicate hand. The Doctor examined him again with a milderglance. 

"I suppose you think you've got the principles of life all right, don'tyou?"

"Yes, I do, " replied the other, taking his turn at folding arms. 

"H-m-m! I dare say you do. What you lack is the practice. " The Doctorsealed his utterance with a nod. 

The young man showed amusement; more, it may be, than he felt, andpresently pointed out his lodging-place. 

"Here, on this side; Number 40;" and they alighted. 

CHAPTER III. 

HIS WIFE. 

In former times the presence in New Orleans, during the cooler half ofthe year, of large numbers of mercantile men from all parts of theworld, who did not accept the fever-plagued city as their permanentresidence, made much business for the renters of furnished apartments. At the same time there was a class of persons whose residence waspermanent, and to whom this letting of rooms fell by an easy and naturalgravitation; and the most respectable and comfortable rented rooms ofwhich the city could boast were those _chambres garnies_ in Custom-houseand Bienville streets, kept by worthy free or freed mulatto or quadroonwomen. 

In 1856 the gala days of this half-caste people were quite over. Difference was made between virtue and vice, and the famous quadroonballs were shunned by those who aspired to respectability, whether theirwhiteness was nature or only toilet powder. Generations of domesticservice under ladies of Gallic blood had brought many of them to asupreme pitch of excellence as housekeepers. In many cases money hadbeen inherited; in other cases it had been saved up. That Latin feminineability to hold an awkward position with impregnable serenity, and, likethe yellow Mississippi, to give back no reflection from the overhangingsky, emphasized this superior fitness. That bright, womanly businessability that comes of the same blood added again to their excellence. Not to be home itself, nothing could be more like it than were theapartments let by Madame Cécile, or Madame Sophie, or Madame Athalie, or Madame Polyxčne, or whatever the name might be. 

It was in one of these houses, that presented its dull brick frontdirectly upon the sidewalk of Custom-house street, with the unfailinglittle square sign of _Chambres ŕ louer_ (Rooms to let), dangling by astring from the overhanging balcony and twirling in the breeze, thatthe sick wife lay. A waiting slave-girl opened the door as the two menapproached it, and both of them went directly upstairs and into a large, airy room. On a high, finely carved, and heavily hung mahogany bed, to which the remaining furniture corresponded in ancient style andmassiveness, was stretched the form of a pale, sweet-faced little woman. 

The proprietress of the house was sitting beside the bed, --a quadroon ofgood, kind face, forty-five years old or so, tall and broad. She roseand responded to the Doctor's silent bow with that pretty dignity ofgreeting which goes with all French blood, and remained standing. Theinvalid stirred. 

The physician came forward to the bedside. The patient could not havebeen much over nineteen years of age. Her face was very pleasing; atrifle slender in outline; the brows somewhat square, not wide; themouth small. She would not have been called beautiful, even in health, by those who lay stress on correctness of outlines. But she had onething that to some is better. Whether it was in the dark blue eyes thatwere lifted to the Doctor's with a look which changed rapidly frominquiry to confidence, or in the fine, scarcely perceptible strands ofpale-brown hair that played about her temples, he did not make out; but, for one cause or another, her face was of that kind which almost anyone has seen once or twice, and no one has seen often, --that seems togive out a soft, but veritable, light. 

She was very weak. Her eyes quickly dropped away from his, and turnedwearily, but peacefully, to those of her husband. 

The Doctor spoke to her. His greeting and gentle inquiry were full of asoothing quality that was new to the young man. His long fingers movedtwice or thrice softly across her brow, pushing back the thin, wavingstrands, and then he sat down in a chair, continuing his kind, directquestions. The answers were all bad. 

He turned his glance to the quadroon; she understood it; the patient wasseriously ill. The nurse responded with a quiet look of comprehension. At the same time the Doctor disguised from the young strangers thisinterchange of meanings by an audible question to the quadroon. 

"Have I ever met you before?"

"No, seh. "

"What is your name?"

"Zénobie. "

"Madame Zénobie, " softly whispered the invalid, turning her eyes, witha glimmer of feeble pleasantry, first to the quadroon and then to herhusband. 

The physician smiled at her an instant, and then gave a few concisedirections to the quadroon. "Get me"--thus and so. 

The woman went and came. She was a superior nurse, like so many of herrace. So obvious, indeed, was this, that when she gently pressed theyoung husband an inch or two aside, and murmured that "de doctah" wantedhim to "go h-out, " he left the room, although he knew the physician hadnot so indicated. 

By-and-by he returned, but only at her beckon, and remained at thebedside while Madame Zénobie led the Doctor into another room to writehis prescription. 

"Who are these people?" asked the physician, in an undertone, looking upat the quadroon, and pausing with the prescription half torn off. 

She shrugged her large shoulders and smiled perplexedly. 

"Mizzez--Reechin?" The tone was one of query rather than assertion. "Deysesso, " she added. 

She might nurse the lady like a mother, but she was not going to beresponsible for the genuineness of a stranger's name. 

"Where are they from?"

"I dunno?--Some pless?--I nevva yeh dat nem biffo?"

She made a timid attempt at some word ending in "walk, " and smiled, ready to accept possible ridicule. 

"Milwaukee?" asked the Doctor. 

She lifted her palm, smiled brightly, pushed him gently with the tip ofone finger, and nodded. He had hit the nail on the head. 

"What business is he in?"

The questioner arose. 

She cast a sidelong glance at him with a slight enlargement of her eyes, and, compressing her lips, gave her head a little, decided shake. Theyoung man was not employed. 

"And has no money either, I suppose, " said the physician, as theystarted again toward the sick-room. 

She shrugged again and smiled; but it came to her mind that the Doctormight be considering his own interests, and she added, in a whisper:--

"Dey pay me. "

She changed places with the husband, and the physician and he passeddown the stairs together in silence. 

"Well, Doctor?" said the young man, as he stood, prescription in hand, before the carriage-door. 

"Well, " responded the physician, "you should have called me sooner. "

The look of agony that came into the stranger's face caused the Doctorinstantly to repent his hard speech. 

"You don't mean"--exclaimed the husband. 

"No, no; I don't think it's too late. Get that prescription filled andgive it to Mrs. ----"

"Richling, " said the young man. 

"Let her have perfect quiet, " continued the Doctor. "I shall be backthis evening. "

And when he returned she had improved. 

She was better again the next day, and the next; but on the fourth shewas in a very critical state. She lay quite silent during the Doctor'svisit, until he, thinking he read in her eyes a wish to say something tohim alone, sent her husband and the quadroon out of the room on separateerrands at the same moment. And immediately she exclaimed:--

"Doctor, save my life! You mustn't let me die! Save me, for my husband'ssake! To lose all he's lost for me, and then to lose me too--save me, Doctor! save me!"

"I'm going to do it!" said he. "You shall get well!"

And what with his skill and her endurance it turned out so. 

CHAPTER IV. 

CONVALESCENCE AND ACQUAINTANCE. 

A man's clothing is his defence; but with a woman all dress isadornment. Nature decrees it; adornment is her instinctive delight. And, above all, the adorning of a bride; it brings out so charmingly themeaning of the thing. Therein centres the gay consent of all mankind andwomankind to an innocent, sweet apostasy from the ranks of both. Thevalue of living--which is loving; the sacredest wonders of life; allthat is fairest and of best delight in thought, in feeling, yea, insubstance, --all are apprehended under the floral crown and hymenealveil. So, when at length one day Mrs. Richling said, "Madame Zénobie, don't you think I might sit up?" it would have been absurd to doubt thequadroon's willingness to assist her in dressing. True, here was neitherwreath nor veil, but here was very young wifehood, and its re-attiringwould be like a proclamation of victory over the malady that had strivento put two hearts asunder. Her willingness could hardly be doubted, though she smiled irresponsibly, and said:--

"If you thing"-- She spread her eyes and elbows suddenly in the mannerof a crab, with palms turned upward and thumbs outstretched--"Well!"--andso dropped them. 

"You don't want wait till de doctah comin'?" she asked. 

"I don't think he's coming; it's after his time. "

"Yass?"

The woman was silent a moment, and then threw up one hand again, withthe forefinger lifted alertly forward. 

"I make a lill fi' biffo. "

She made a fire. Then she helped the convalescent to put on a few loosedrapings. She made no concealment of the enjoyment it gave her, thoughher words were few, and generally were answers to questions; and whenat length she brought from the wardrobe, pretending not to notice hermistake, a loose and much too ample robe of woollen and silken stuffs togo over all, she moved as though she trod on holy ground, and distinctlyfelt, herself, the thrill with which the convalescent, her young eyesbeaming their assent, let her arms into the big sleeves, and drew abouther small form the soft folds of her husband's morning-gown. 

"He goin' to fine that droll, " said the quadroon. 

The wife's face confessed her pleasure. 

"It's as much mine as his, " she said. 

"Is you mek dat?" asked the nurse, as she drew its silken cord about theconvalescent's waist. 

"Yes. Don't draw it tight; leave it loose--so; but you can tie the knottight. That will do; there!" She smiled broadly. "Don't tie me in as ifyou were tying me in forever. "

Madame Zénobie understood perfectly, and, smiling in response, did tieit as if she were tying her in forever. 

Half an hour or so later the quadroon, being--it may have been bychance--at the street door, ushered in a person who simply bowed insilence. 

But as he put one foot on the stair he paused, and, bending a severegaze upon her, asked:--

"Why do you smile?"

She folded her hands limply on her bosom, and drawing a cheek andshoulder toward each other, replied:--

"Nuttin'"--

The questioner's severity darkened. 

"Why do you smile at nothing?"

She laid the tips of her fingers upon her lips to compose them. 

"You din come in you' carridge. She goin' to thing 'tis Miché Reechin. "The smile forced its way through her fingers. The visitor turned inquiet disdain and went upstairs, she following. 

At the top he let her pass. She led the way and, softly pushing open thechamber-door, entered noiselessly, turned, and, as the other steppedacross the threshold, nestled her hands one on the other at her waist, shrank inward with a sweet smile, and waved one palm toward the huge, blue-hung mahogany four-poster, --empty. 

The visitor gave a slight double nod and moved on across the carpet. Before a small coal fire, in a grate too wide for it, stood a broad, cushioned rocking-chair, with the corner of a pillow showing over itstop. The visitor went on around it. The girlish form lay in it, witheyes closed, very still; but his professional glance quickly detectedthe false pretence of slumber. A slippered foot was still slightlyreached out beyond the bright colors of the long gown, and toward thebrazen edge of the hearth-pan, as though the owner had been touching hertiptoe against it to keep the chair in gentle motion. One cheek was onthe pillow; down the other curled a few light strands of hair that hadescaped from her brow. 

Thus for an instant. Then a smile began to wreath about the corner ofher lips; she faintly stirred, opened her eyes--and lo! Dr. Sevier, motionless, tranquil, and grave. 

"O Doctor!" The blood surged into her face and down upon her neck. She put her hands over her eyes, and her face into the pillow. "ODoctor!"--rising to a sitting posture, --"I thought, of course, itwas my husband. "

The Doctor replied while she was speaking:--

"My carriage broke down. " He drew a chair toward the fireplace, andasked, with his face toward the dying fire:--

"How are you feeling to-day, madam, --stronger?"

"Yes; I can almost say I'm well. " The blush was still on her faceas he turned to receive her answer, but she smiled with a brightcourageousness that secretly amused and pleased him. "I thank you, Doctor, for my recovery; I certainly should thank you. " Her face lightedup with that soft radiance which was its best quality, and her smilebecame half introspective as her eyes dropped from his, and followed heroutstretched hand as it rearranged the farther edges of thedressing-gown one upon another. 

"If you will take better care of yourself hereafter, madam, " respondedthe Doctor, thumping and brushing from his knee some specks of mud thathe may have got when his carriage broke down, "I will thank you. But"--brush--brush--"I--doubt it. "

"Do you think you should?" she asked, leaning forward from the back ofthe great chair and letting her wrists drop over the front of its broadarms. 

"I do, " said the Doctor, kindly. "Why shouldn't I? This present attackwas by your own fault. " While he spoke he was looking into her eyes, contracted at their corners by her slight smile. The face was one ofthose that show not merely that the world is all unknown to them, butthat it always will be so. It beamed with inquisitive intelligence, andyet had the innocence almost of infancy. The Doctor made a discovery;that it was this that made her beautiful. "She _is_ beautiful, " heinsisted to himself when his critical faculty dissented. 

"You needn't doubt me, Doctor. I'll try my best to take care. Why, ofcourse I will, --for John's sake. " She looked up into his face from thetassel she was twisting around her finger, touching the floor with herslippers' toe and faintly rocking. 

"Yes, there's a chance there, " replied the grave man, seemingly notovermuch pleased; "I dare say everything you do or leave undone is forhis sake. "

The little wife betrayed for a moment a pained perplexity, and thenexclaimed:--

"Well, of course!" and waited his answer with bright eyes. 

"I have known women to think of their own sakes, " was the response. 

She laughed, and with unprecedented sparkle replied:--

"Why, whatever's his sake is my sake. I don't see the difference. Yes, Isee, of course, how there might be a difference; but I don't see how awoman"-- She ceased, still smiling, and, dropping her eyes to her hands, slowly stroked one wrist and palm with the tassel of her husband's robe. 

The Doctor rose, turned his back to the mantel-piece, and looked downupon her. He thought of the great, wide world: its thorny ways, itsdeserts, its bitter waters, its unrighteousness, its self-seekinggreeds, its weaknesses, its under and over reaching, its unfaithfulness;and then again of this--child, thrust all at once a thousand miles intoit, with never--so far as he could see--an implement, a weapon, a senseof danger, or a refuge; well pleased with herself, as it seemed, liftedup into the bliss of self-obliterating wifehood, and resting in herhusband with such an assurance of safety and happiness as a saint mightpray for grace to show to Heaven itself. He stood silent, feeling toogrim to speak, and presently Mrs. Richling looked up with a suddenliveliness of eye and a smile that was half apology and halfpersistence. 

"Yes, Doctor, I'm going to take care of myself. "

"Mrs. Richling, is your father a man of fortune?"

"My father is not living, " said she, gravely. "He died two years ago. Hewas the pastor of a small church. No, sir; he had nothing but his smallsalary, except that for some years he taught a few scholars. He taughtme. " She brightened up again. "I never had any other teacher. "

The Doctor folded his hands behind him and gazed abstractedly throughthe upper sash of the large French windows. The street-door was heard toopen. 

"There's John, " said the convalescent, quickly, and the next momenther husband entered. A tired look vanished from his face as he saw theDoctor. He hurried to grasp his hand, then turned and kissed his wife. The physician took up his hat. 

"Doctor, " said the wife, holding the hand he gave her, and looking upplayfully, with her cheek against the chair-back, "you surely didn'tsuspect me of being a rich girl, did you?"

"Not at all, madam. " His emphasis was so pronounced that the husbandlaughed. 

"There's one comfort in the opposite condition, Doctor, " said the youngman. 

"Yes?"

"Why, yes; you see, it requires no explanation. "

"Yes, it does, " said the physician; "it is just as binding on peopleto show good cause why they are poor as it is to show good cause whythey're rich. Good-day, madam. " The two men went out together. His wordwould have been good-by, but for the fear of fresh acknowledgments. 

CHAPTER V. 

HARD QUESTIONS. 

Dr. Sevier had a simple abhorrence of the expression of personalsentiment in words. Nothing else seemed to him so utterly hollow asthe attempt to indicate by speech a regard or affection which was notalready demonstrated in behavior. So far did he keep himself aloof frominsincerity that he had barely room enough left to be candid. 

"I need not see your wife any more, " he said, as he went down the stairswith the young husband at his elbow; and the young man had learned himwell enough not to oppress him with formal thanks, whatever might havebeen said or omitted upstairs. 

Madame Zénobie contrived to be near enough, as they reached the lowerfloor, to come in for a share of the meagre adieu. She gave her handwith a dainty grace and a bow that might have been imported from Paris. 

Dr. Sevier paused on the front step, half turned toward the open doorwhere the husband still tarried. That was not speech; it was scarcelyaction; but the young man understood it and was silent. In truth, theDoctor himself felt a pang in this sort of farewell. A physician's waythrough the world is paved, I have heard one say, with these brokenbits of other's lives, of all colors and all degrees of beauty. Inhis reminiscences, when he can do no better, he gathers them up, and, turning them over and over in the darkened chamber of hisretrospection, sees patterns of delight lit up by the softened rays ofbygone time. But even this renews the pain of separation, and Dr. Sevierfelt, right here at this door-step, that, if this was to be the last ofthe Richlings, he would feel the twinge of parting every time they cameup again in his memory. 

He looked at the house opposite, --where there was really nothing to lookat, --and at a woman who happened to be passing, and who was only like athousand others with whom he had nothing to do. 

"Richling, " he said, "what brings you to New Orleans, any way?"

Richling leaned his cheek against the door-post. 

"Simply seeking my fortune, Doctor. "

"Do you think it is here?"

"I'm pretty sure it is; the world owes me a living. "

The Doctor looked up. 

"When did you get the world in your debt?"

Richling lifted his head pleasantly, and let one foot down a step. 

"It owes me a chance to earn a living, doesn't it?"

"I dare say, " replied the other; "that's what it generally owes. "

"That's all I ask of it, " said Richling; "if it will let us alone we'lllet it alone. "

"You've no right to allow either, " said the physician. "No, sir; no, " heinsisted, as the young man looked incredulous. There was a pause. "Haveyou any capital?" asked the Doctor. 

"Capital! No, "--with a low laugh. 

"But surely you have something to"--

"Oh, yes, --a little!"

The Doctor marked the southern "Oh. " There is no "O" in Milwaukee. 

"You don't find as many vacancies as you expected to see, Isuppose--h-m-m?"

There was an under-glow of feeling in the young man's tone as hereplied:--

"I was misinformed. "

"Well, " said the Doctor, staring down-street, "you'll find something. What can you do?"

"Do? Oh, I'm willing to do anything!"

Dr. Sevier turned his gaze slowly, with a shade of disappointment in it. Richling rallied to his defences. 

"I think I could make a good book-keeper, or correspondent, or cashier, or any such"--

The Doctor interrupted, with the back of his head toward his listener, looking this time up the street, riverward:--

"Yes;--or a shoe, --or a barrel, --h-m-m?"

Richling bent forward with the frown of defective hearing, and thephysician raised his voice:--

"Or a cart-wheel--or a coat?"

"I can make a living, " rejoined the other, with a needlesslyresentful-heroic manner, that was lost, or seemed to be, on thephysician. 

"Richling, "--the Doctor suddenly faced around and fixed a kindly severeglance on him, --"why didn't you bring letters?"

"Why, "--the young man stopped, looked at his feet, and distinctlyblushed. "I think, " he stammered--"it seems to me"--he looked up with afaltering eye--"don't you think--I think a man ought to be able torecommend _himself_. "

The Doctor's gaze remained so fixed that the self-recommended man couldnot endure it silently. 

"_I_ think so, " he said, looking down again and swinging his foot. Suddenly he brightened. "Doctor, isn't this your carriage coming?"

"Yes; I told the boy to drive by here when it was mended, and he mightfind me. " The vehicle drew up and stopped. "Still, Richling, " thephysician continued, as he stepped toward it, "you had better get aletter or two, yet; you might need them. "

The door of the carriage clapped to. There seemed a touch of vexation inthe sound. Richling, too, closed his door, but in the soft way of one introubled meditation. Was this a proper farewell? The thought came toboth men. 

"Stop a minute!" said Dr. Sevier to his driver. He leaned out a littleat the side of the carriage and looked back. "Never mind; he has gonein. "

The young husband went upstairs slowly and heavily, more slowly andheavily than might be explained by his all-day unsuccessful tramp afteremployment. His wife still rested in the rocking-chair. He stood againstit, and she took his hand and stroked it. 

"Tired?" she asked, looking up at him. He gazed into the languishingfire. 

"Yes. "

"You're not discouraged, are you?"

"Discouraged? N-no. And yet, " he said, slowly shaking his head, "I can'tsee why I don't find something to do. "

"It's because you don't hunt for it, " said the wife. 

He turned upon her with flashing countenance only to meet her laugh, andto have his head pulled down to her lips. He dropped into the seat leftby the physician, laid his head back in his knit hands, and crossed hisfeet under the chair. 

"John, I do _like_ Dr. Sevier. "

"Why?" The questioner looked at the ceiling. 

"Why, don't you like him?" asked the wife, and, as John smiled, sheadded, "You know you like him. "

The husband grasped the poker in both hands, dropped his elbows upon hisknees, and began touching the fire, saying slowly:--

"I believe the Doctor thinks I'm a fool. "

"That's nothing, " said the little wife; "that's only because you marriedme. "

The poker stopped rattling between the grate-bars; the husband looked atthe wife. Her eyes, though turned partly away, betrayed their mischief. There was a deadly pause; then a rush to the assault, a shower ofCupid's arrows, a quick surrender. 

But we refrain. Since ever the world began it is Love's real, not hissham, battles that are worth the telling. 

CHAPTER VI. 

NESTING. 

A fortnight passed. What with calls on his private skill, and appealsto his public zeal, Dr. Sevier was always loaded like a dromedary. Just now he was much occupied with the affairs of the great Americanpeople. For all he was the furthest remove from a mere party contestantor spoilsman, neither his righteous pugnacity nor his human sympathywould allow him to "let politics alone. " Often across this preoccupationthere flitted a thought of the Richlings. 

At length one day he saw them. He had been called by a patient, lodgingnear Madame Zénobie's house. The proximity of the young couple occurredto him at once, but he instantly realized the extreme poverty of thechance that he should see them. To increase the improbability, the shortafternoon was near its close, --an hour when people generally weresitting at dinner. 

But what a coquette is that same chance! As he was driving up at thesidewalk's edge before his patient's door, the Richlings came out oftheirs, the husband talking with animation, and the wife, all sunshine, skipping up to his side, and taking his arm with both hands, andattending eagerly to his words. 

"Heels!" muttered the Doctor to himself, for the sound of Mrs. Richling's gaiters betrayed that fact. Heels were an innovation stillnew enough to rouse the resentment of masculine conservatism. But forthem she would have pleased his sight entirely. Bonnets, for yearsmicroscopic, had again become visible, and her girlish face was prettilyset in one whose flowers and ribbon, just joyous and no more, werereflected again in the double-skirted silk _barége_; while the darkmantilla that drooped away from the broad lace collar, shading, withouthiding, her "Parodi" waist, seemed made for that very street ofheavy-grated archways, iron-railed balconies, and high lattices. TheDoctor even accepted patiently the free northern step, which is commonlyso repugnant to the southern eye. 

A heightened gladness flashed into the faces of the two young people asthey descried the physician. 

"Good-afternoon, " they said, advancing. 

"Good-evening, " responded the Doctor, and shook hands with each. Themeeting was an emphatic pleasure to him. He quite forgot the young man'slack of credentials. 

"Out taking the air?" he asked. 

"Looking about, " said the husband. 

"Looking up new quarters, " said the wife, knitting her fingers about herhusband's elbow and drawing closer to it. 

"Were you not comfortable?"

"Yes; but the rooms are larger than we need. "

"Ah!" said the Doctor; and there the conversation sank. There was notopic suited to so fleeting a moment, and when they had smiled all roundagain Dr. Sevier lifted his hat. Ah, yes, there was one thing. 

"Have you found work?" asked the Doctor of Richling. 

The wife glanced up for an instant into her husband's face, and thendown again. 

"No, " said Richling, "not yet. If you should hear of anything, Doctor"--He remembered the Doctor's word about letters, stoppedsuddenly, and seemed as if he might even withdraw the request; but theDoctor said:--

"I will; I will let you know. " He gave his hand to Richling. It was onhis lips to add: "And should you need, " etc. ; but there was the wife atthe husband's side. So he said no more. The pair bowed their cheerfulthanks; but beside the cheer, or behind it, in the husband's face, wasthere not the look of one who feels the odds against him? And yet, whilethe two men's hands still held each other, the look vanished, and theyoung man's light grasp had such firmness in it that, for this causealso, the Doctor withheld his patronizing utterance. He believed hewould himself have resented it had he been in Richling's place. 

The young pair passed on, and that night, as Dr. Sevier sat at hisfireside, an uncompanioned widower, he saw again the young wife lookquickly up into her husband's face, and across that face flit anddisappear its look of weary dismay, followed by the air of fresh couragewith which the young couple had said good-by. 

"I wish I had spoken, " he thought to himself; "I wish I had made theoffer. "

And again:--

"I hope he didn't tell her what I said about the letters. Not but I wasright, but it'll only wound her. "

But Richling had told her; he always "told her everything;" she couldnot possibly have magnified wifehood more, in her way, than he did inhis. May be both ways were faulty; but they were extravagantly, youthfully confident that they were not. 

 * * *

Unknown to Dr. Sevier, the Richlings had returned from their searchunsuccessful. Finding prices too much alike in Custom-house street theyturned into Burgundy. From Burgundy they passed into Du Maine. As theywent, notwithstanding disappointments, their mood grew gay and gayer. Everything that met the eye was quaint and droll to them: men, women, things, places, --all were more or less outlandish. The grotesqueness ofthe African, and especially the French-tongued African, was to Mrs. Richling particularly irresistible. Multiplying upon each and all ofthese things was the ludicrousness of the pecuniary strait that broughtthemselves and these things into contact. Everything turned to fun. 

Mrs. Richling's mirthful mood prompted her by and by to begin lettinginto her inquiries and comments covert double meanings, intended for herhusband's private understanding. Thus they crossed Bourbon street. 

About there their mirth reached a climax; it was in a small house, asad, single-story thing, cowering between two high buildings, its eaves, four or five feet deep, overshadowing its one street door and window. 

"Looks like a shade for weak eyes, " said the wife. 

They had debated whether they should enter it or not. He thought no, shethought yes; but he would not insist and she would not insist; shewished him to do as he thought best, and he wished her to do as shethought best, and they had made two or three false starts and retreatsbefore they got inside. But they were in there at length, and busilyengaged inquiring into the availability of a small, lace-curtained, front room, when Richling took his wife so completely off her guard byaddressing her as "Madam, " in the tone and manner of Dr. Sevier, thatshe laughed in the face of the householder, who had been trying to talkEnglish with a French accent and a hare-lip, and they fled with hasteto the sidewalk and around the corner, where they could smile and smilewithout being villains. 

"We must stop this, " said the wife, blushing. "We _must_ stop it. We'reattracting attention. "

And this was true at least as to one ragamuffin, who stood on aneighboring corner staring at them. Yet there is no telling to whathigher pitch their humor might have carried them if Mrs. Richling hadnot been weighted down by the constant necessity of correcting herhusband's statement of their wants. This she could do, because hisexactions were all in the direction of her comfort. 

"But, John, " she would say each time as they returned to the street andresumed their quest, "those things cost; you can't afford them, canyou?"

"Why, you can't be comfortable without them, " he would answer. 

"But that's not the question, John. We _must_ take cheaper lodgings, mustn't we?"

Then John would be silent, and by littles their gayety would rise again. 

One landlady was so good-looking, so manifestly and entirely Caucasian, so melodious of voice, and so modest in her account of the rooms sheshowed, that Mrs. Richling was captivated. The back room on the secondfloor, overlooking the inner court and numerous low roofs beyond, wassuitable and cheap. 

"Yes, " said the sweet proprietress, turning to Richling, who hung indoubt whether it was quite good enough, "yesseh, I think you be prettywell in that room yeh. [1] Yesseh, I'm shoe you be _verrie_ well;yesseh. "

 [1] "Yeh"--_ye_, as in _yearn_. 

"Can we get them at once?"

"Yes? At once? Yes? Oh, yes?"

No downward inflections from her. 

"Well, "--the wife looked at the husband; he nodded, --"well, we'll takeit. "

"Yes?" responded the landlady; "well?" leaning against a bedpost andsmiling with infantile diffidence, "you dunt want no ref'ence?"

"No, " said John, generously, "oh, no; we can trust each other that far, eh?"

"Oh, yes?" replied the sweet creature; then suddenly changingcountenance, as though she remembered something. "But daz de troub'--deroom not goin' be vacate for t'ree mont'. "

She stretched forth her open palms and smiled, with one arm still aroundthe bedpost. 

"Why, " exclaimed Mrs. Richling, the very statue of astonishment, "yousaid just now we could have it at once!"

"Dis room? _Oh_, no; nod _dis_ room. "

"I don't see how I could have misunderstood you. "

The landlady lifted her shoulders, smiled, and clasped her hands acrosseach other under her throat. Then throwing them apart she saidbrightly:--

"No, I say at Madame La Rose. Me, my room is all fill'. At Madame LaRose, I say, I think you be pritty well. I'm shoe you be verrie wellat Madame La Rose. I'm sorry. But you kin paz yondeh--'tiz juz ad thecawneh? And I am shoe I think you be pritty well at Madame La Rose. "

She kept up the repetition, though Mrs. Richling, incensed, had turnedher back, and Richling was saying good-day. 

"She did say the room was vacant!" exclaimed the little wife, as theyreached the sidewalk. But the next moment there came a quick twinklefrom her eye, and, waving her husband to go on without her, she said, "You kin paz yondeh; at Madame La Rose I am shoe you be pritty sick. "Thereupon she took his arm, --making everybody stare and smile to see alady and gentleman arm in arm by daylight, --and they went merrily ontheir way. 

The last place they stopped at was in Royal street. The entrancewas bad. It was narrow even for those two. The walls were stained bydampness, and the smell of a totally undrained soil came up through thefloor. The stairs ascended a few steps, came too near a low ceiling, andshot forward into cavernous gloom to find a second rising placefarther on. But the rooms, when reached, were a tolerably pleasantdisappointment, and the proprietress a person of reassuring amiability. 

She bestirred herself in an obliging way that was the most charmingthing yet encountered. She gratified the young people every momentafresh with her readiness to understand or guess their English queriesand remarks, hung her head archly when she had to explain away littleobjections, delivered her No sirs with gravity and her Yes sirs withbright eagerness, shook her head slowly with each negative announcement, and accompanied her affirmations with a gracious bow and a smile full ofrice powder. 

She rendered everything so agreeable, indeed, that it almost seemedimpolite to inquire narrowly into matters, and when the question ofprice had to come up it was really difficult to bring it forward, andRichling quite lost sight of the economic rules to which he had silentlyacceded in the _Rue Du Maine_. 

"And you will carpet the floor?" he asked, hovering off of the mainissue. 

"Put coppit? Ah! cettainlee!" she replied, with a lovely bow and a waveof the hand toward Mrs. Richling, whom she had already given the sameassurance. 

"Yes, " responded the little wife, with a captivated smile, and nodded toher husband. 

"We want to get the decentest thing that is cheap, " he said, as thethree stood close together in the middle of the room. 

The landlady flushed. 

"No, no, John, " said the wife, quickly, "don't you know what we said?"Then, turning to the proprietress, she hurried to add, "We want thecheapest thing that is decent. "

But the landlady had not waited for the correction. 

"_Dis_sent! You want somesin _dis_sent!" She moved a step backward onthe floor, scoured and smeared with brick-dust, her ire rising visiblyat every heart-throb, and pointing her outward-turned open handenergetically downward, added:--

"'Tis yeh!" She breathed hard. "_Mais_, no; you don't _want_ somesindissent. No!" She leaned forward interrogatively: "You want somesintchip?" She threw both elbows to the one side, cast her spread handsoff in the same direction, drew the cheek on that side down into thecollar-bone, raised her eyebrows, and pushed her upper lip with herlower, scornfully. 

At that moment her ear caught the words of the wife's apologeticamendment. They gave her fresh wrath and new opportunity. For her newfoe was a woman, and a woman trying to speak in defence of the husbandagainst whose arm she clung. 

"Ah-h-h!" Her chin went up; her eyes shot lightning; she folded her armsfiercely, and drew herself to her best height; and, as Richling's eyesshot back in rising indignation, cried:--

"Ziss pless? 'Tis not ze pless! Zis pless--is diss'nt pless! I amdiss'nt woman, me! Fo w'at you come in yeh?"

"My dear madam! My husband"--

"Dass you' uzban'?" pointing at him. 

"Yes!" cried the two Richlings at once. 

The woman folded her arms again, turned half-aside, and, lifting hereyes to the ceiling, simply remarked, with an ecstatic smile:--

"Humph!" and left the pair, red with exasperation, to find the streetagain through the darkening cave of the stair-way. 

 * * *

It was still early the next morning, when Richling entered his wife'sapartment with an air of brisk occupation. She was pinning her brooch atthe bureau glass. 

"Mary, " he exclaimed, "put something on and come see what I'vefound! The queerest, most romantic old thing in the city; the mostcomfortable--and the cheapest! Here, is this the wardrobe key? To savetime I'll get your bonnet. "

"No, no, no!" cried the laughing wife, confronting him with sparklingeyes, and throwing herself before the wardrobe; "I can't let you touchmy bonnet!"

There is a limit, it seems, even to a wife's subserviency. 

However, in a very short time afterward, by the feminine measure, theywere out in the street, and people were again smiling at the pretty pairto see her arm in his, and she actually _keeping step_. 'Twas veryfunny. 

As they went John described his discovery: A pair of huge, solid greengates immediately on the sidewalk, in the dull façade of a tall, redbrick building with old carved vinework on its window and door frames. Hinges a yard long on the gates; over the gates a semi-circular gratingof iron bars an inch in diameter; in one of these gates a wicket, andon the wicket a heavy, battered, highly burnished brass knocker. Ashort-legged, big-bodied, and very black slave to usher one through thewicket into a large, wide, paved corridor, where from the middle joistoverhead hung a great iron lantern. Big double doors at the far end, standing open, flanked with diamond-paned side-lights of colored glass, and with an arch at the same, fan-shaped, above. Beyond these doors andshowing through them, a flagged court, bordered all around by a narrow, raised parterre under pomegranate and fruit-laden orange, andover-towered by vine-covered and latticed walls, from whose raggedeaves vagabond weeds laughed down upon the flowers of the parterre below, robbed of late and early suns. Stairs old fashioned, broad; rooms, theirchoice of two; one looking down into the court, the other into thestreet; furniture faded, capacious; ceilings high; windows, each openingupon its own separate small balcony, where, instead of balustrades, wasgraceful iron scroll-work, centered by some long-dead owner's monogramtwo feet in length; and on the balcony next the division wall, close toanother on the adjoining property, a quarter circle of iron-work setlike a blind-bridle, and armed with hideous prongs for house-breakers toget impaled on. 

"Why, in there, " said Richling, softly, as they hurried in, "we'll behid from the whole world, and the whole world from us. "

The wife's answer was only the upward glance of her blue eyes into his, and a faint smile. 

The place was all it had been described to be, and more, --except in oneparticular. 

"And my husband tells me"--The owner of said husband stood beside him, one foot a little in advance of the other, her folded parasol hangingdown the front of her skirt from her gloved hands, her eyes justreturning to the landlady's from an excursion around the ceiling, andher whole appearance as fresh as the pink flowers that nestled betweenher brow and the rim of its precious covering. She smiled as she beganher speech, but not enough to spoil what she honestly believed to be avery business-like air and manner. John had quietly dropped out of thenegotiations, and she felt herself put upon her mettle as his agent. "And my husband tells me the price of this front room is ten dollars amonth. "

"Munse?"

The respondent was a very white, corpulent woman, who constantly pantedfor breath, and was everywhere sinking down into chairs, with her limp, unfortified skirt dropping between her knees, and her hands pressed onthem exhaustedly. 

"Munse?" She turned from husband to wife, and back again, a glance ofalarmed inquiry. 

Mary tried her hand at French. 

"Yes; _oui, madame_. Ten dollah the month--_le mois_. "

Intelligence suddenly returned. Madame made a beautiful, silent O withher mouth and two others with her eyes. 

"Ah _non_! By munse? No, madame. Ah-h! impossybl'! By _wick_, yes; tendollah de wick! Ah!"

She touched her bosom with the wide-spread fingers of one hand and threwthem toward her hearers. 

The room-hunters got away, yet not so quickly but they heard behind andabove them her scornful laugh, addressed to the walls of the empty room. 

A day or two later they secured an apartment, cheap, and--morally--decent; but otherwise--ah!

CHAPTER VII. 

DISAPPEARANCE. 

It was the year of a presidential campaign. The party that afterwardrose to overwhelming power was, for the first time, able to put itscandidate fairly abreast of his competitors. The South was all afire. Rising up or sitting down, coming or going, week-day or Sabbath-day, eating or drinking, marrying or burying, the talk was all of slavery, abolition, and a disrupted country. 

Dr. Sevier became totally absorbed in the issue. He was toounconventional a thinker ever to find himself in harmony with all thedeclarations of any party, and yet it was a necessity of his nature tobe in the _męlée_. He had his own array of facts, his own peculiardeductions; his own special charges of iniquity against this party andof criminal forbearance against that; his own startling politicaleconomy; his own theory of rights; his own interpretations of theConstitution; his own threats and warnings; his own exhortations, andhis own prophecies, of which one cannot say all have come true. But hepoured them forth from the mighty heart of one who loved his country, and sat down with a sense of duty fulfilled and wiped his pale foreheadwhile the band played a polka. 

It hardly need be added that he proposed to dispense with politicians, or that, when "the boys" presently counted him into their party team forcampaign haranguing, he let them clap the harness upon him and splashedalong in the mud with an intention as pure as snow. 

"Hurrah for"--

Whom it is no matter now. It was not Fremont. Buchanan won the race. Outwent the lights, down came the platforms, rockets ceased to burst; itwas of no use longer to "Wait for the wagon"; "Old Dan Tucker" got "outof the way, " small boys were no longer fellow-citizens, dissolution waspostponed, and men began to have an eye single to the getting of money. 

A mercantile friend of Dr. Sevier had a vacant clerkship which it wasnecessary to fill. A bright recollection flashed across the Doctor'smemory. 

"Narcisse!"

"Yesseh!"

"Go to Number 40 Custom-house street and inquire for Mr. Fledgeling; or, if he isn't in, for Mrs. Fledge--humph! Richling, I mean; I"--

Narcisse laughed aloud. 

"Ha-ha-ha! daz de way, sometime'! My hant she got a honcl'--he says, once 'pon a time"--

"Never mind! Go at once!"

"All a-ight, seh!"

"Give him this card"--

"Yesseh!"

"These people"--

"Yesseh!"

"Well, wait till you get your errand, can't you? These"--

"Yesseh!"

"These people want to see him. "

"All a-ight, seh!"

Narcisse threw open and jerked off a worsted jacket, took his coat downfrom a peg, transferred a snowy handkerchief from the breast-pocket ofthe jacket to that of the coat, felt in his pantaloons to be sure thathe had his match-case and cigarettes, changed his shoes, got his hatfrom a high nail by a little leap, and put it on a head as handsome asApollo's. 

"Doctah Seveeah, " he said, "in fact, I fine that a ve'y gen'lemany youngman, that Mistoo Itchlin, weely, Doctah. "

The Doctor murmured to himself from the letter he was writing. 

"Well, _au 'evoi'_, Doctah; I'm goin'. "

Out in the corridor he turned and jerked his chin up and curled his lip, brought a match and cigarette together in the lee of his hollowed hand, took one first, fond draw, and went down the stairs as if they were onfire. 

At Canal street he fell in with two noble fellows of his own circle, andthe three went around by way of Exchange alley to get a glass of soda atMcCloskey's old down-town stand. His two friends were out of employmentat the moment, --making him, consequently, the interesting figure in thetrio as he inveighed against his master. 

"Ah, phooh!" he said, indicating the end of his speech by dropping thestump of his cigarette into the sand on the floor and softly spittingupon it, --"_le_ Shylock _de la rue_ Carondelet!"--and then in English, not to lose the admiration of the Irish waiter:--

"He don't want to haugment me! I din hass 'im, because the 'lection. Butyou juz wait till dat firce of Jannawerry!"

The waiter swathed the zinc counter, and inquired why Narcisse did notmake his demands at the present moment. 

"W'y I don't hass 'im now? Because w'en I hass 'im he know' he's got to_do_ it! You thing I'm goin' to kill myseff workin'?"

Nobody said yes, and by and by he found himself alive in the house ofMadame Zénobie. The furniture was being sold at auction, and the housewas crowded with all sorts and colors of men and women. A huge sideboardwas up for sale as he entered, and the crier was crying:--

"Faw-ty-fi' dollah! faw-ty-fi' dollah, ladies an' gentymen! On'yfaw-ty-fi' dollah fo' thad magniffyzan sidebode! _Quarante-cinquepiastres, seulement, messieurs! Les_ knobs _vaut bien cette prix_!Gentymen, de knobs is worse de money! Ladies, if you don' stop dattalkin', I will not sell one thing mo'! _Et quarante cinquepiastres_--faw-ty-fi' dollah"--

"Fifty!" cried Narcisse, who had not owned that much at one time sincehis father was a constable; realizing which fact, he slipped awayupstairs and found Madame Zénobie half crazed at the slaughter of herassets. 

She sat in a chair against the wall of the room the Richlings hadoccupied, a spectacle of agitated dejection. Here and there about theapartment, either motionless in chairs, or moving noiselessly about, and pulling and pushing softly this piece of furniture and that, werenumerous vulture-like persons of either sex, waiting the up-coming ofthe auctioneer. Narcisse approached her briskly. 

"Well, Madame Zénobie!"--he spoke in French--"is it you who lives here?Don't you remember me? What! No? You don't remember how I used to stealfigs from you?"

The vultures slowly turned their heads. Madame Zénobie looked at him ina dazed way. 

No, she did not remember. So many had robbed her--all her life. 

"But you don't look at me, Madame Zénobie. Don't you remember, forexample, once pulling a little boy--as little as _that_--out of yourfig-tree, and taking the half of a shingle, split lengthwise, in yourhand, and his head under your arm, --swearing you would do it if you diedfor it, --and bending him across your knee, "--he began a vigorous butgraceful movement of the right arm, which few members of our fallen racecould fail to recognize, --"and you don't remember me, my old friend?"

She looked up into the handsome face with a faint smile of affirmation. He laughed with delight. 

"The shingle was _that_ wide. Ah! Madame Zénobie, you did it well!" Hesoftly smote the memorable spot, first with one hand and then with theother, shrinking forward spasmodically with each contact, and throwingutter woe into his countenance. The general company smiled. He suddenlyput on great seriousness. 

"Madame Zénobie, I hope your furniture is selling well?" He still spokein French. 

She cast her eyes upward pleadingly, caught her breath, threw the backof her hand against her temple, and dashed it again to her lap, shakingher head. 

Narcisse was sorry. 

"I have been doing what I could for you, downstairs, --running up theprices of things. I wish I could stay to do more, for the sake of oldtimes. I came to see Mr. Richling, Madame Zénobie; is he in? Dr. Sevierwants him. "

Richling? Why, the Richlings did not live there! The Doctor must knowit. Why should she be made responsible for this mistake? It was hisoversight. They had moved long ago. Dr. Sevier had seen them looking forapartments. Where did they live now? Ah, me! _she_ could not tell. DidMr. Richling owe the Doctor something?

"Owe? Certainly not. The Doctor--on the contrary"--

Ah! well, indeed, she didn't know where they lived, it is true; but thefact was, Mr. Richling happened to be there just then!--_ŕ-ç't'eure_! Hehad come to get a few trifles left by his madame. 

Narcisse made instant search. Richling was not on the upper floor. Hestepped to the landing and looked down. There he went!

"Mistoo 'Itchlin!"

Richling failed to hear. Sharper ears might have served him better. Hepassed out by the street door. Narcisse stopped the auction by the noisehe made coming downstairs after him. He had some trouble with the frontdoor, --lost time there, but got out. 

Richling was turning a corner. Narcisse ran there and looked; lookedup--looked down--looked into every store and shop on either side of theway clear back to Canal street; crossed it, went back to the Doctor'soffice, and reported. If he omitted such details as having seen and thenlost sight of the man he sought, it may have been in part from theDoctor's indisposition to give him speaking license. The conclusion wassimple: the Richlings could not be found. 

 * * *

The months of winter passed. No sign of them. 

"They've gone back home, " the Doctor often said to himself. Howmuch better that was than to stay where they had made a mistake inventuring, and become the nurslings of patronizing strangers! He gave hisadmiration free play, now that they were quite gone. True courage thatRichling had--courage to retreat when retreat is best! And his wife--ah!what a reminder of--hush, memory!

"Yes, they must have gone home!" The Doctor spoke very positively, because, after all, he was haunted by doubt. 

One spring morning he uttered a soft exclamation as he glanced at hisoffice-slate. The first notice on it read:--

 Please call as soon as you can at number 292 St. Mary street, corner of Prytania. Lower corner--opposite the asylum. JOHN RICHLING. 

The place was far up in the newer part of the American quarter. Thesignature had the appearance as if the writer had begun to write someother name, and had changed it to Richling. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

A QUESTION OF BOOK-KEEPING. 

A day or two after Narcisse had gone looking for Richling at the houseof Madame Zénobie, he might have found him, had he known where tosearch, in Tchoupitoulas street. 

Whoever remembers that thoroughfare as it was in those days, when thecommodious "cotton-float" had not quite yet come into use, and Poydrasand other streets did not so vie with Tchoupitoulas in importance asthey do now, will recall a scene of commercial hurly-burly that inspiredmuch pardonable vanity in the breast of the utilitarian citizen. Drays, drays, drays! Not the light New York things; but big, heavy, solidaffairs, many of them drawn by two tall mules harnessed tandem. Draysby threes and by dozens, drays in opposing phalanxes, drays in longprocessions, drays with all imaginable kinds of burden; cotton in bales, piled as high as the omnibuses; leaf tobacco in huge hogsheads; cases oflinens and silks; stacks of raw-hides; crates of cabbages; bales ofprints and of hay; interlocked heaps of blue and red ploughs; bags ofcoffee, and spices, and corn; bales of bagging; barrels, casks, andtierces; whisky, pork, onions, oats, bacon, garlic, molasses, and otherdelicacies; rice, sugar, --what was there not? Wines of France and Spainin pipes, in baskets, in hampers, in octaves; queensware from England;cheeses, like cart-wheels, from Switzerland; almonds, lemons, raisins, olives, boxes of citron, casks of chains; specie from Vera Cruz; criesof drivers, cracking of whips, rumble of wheels, tremble of earth, frequent gorge and stoppage. It seemed an idle tale to say that any onecould be lacking bread and raiment. "We are a great city, " said thepatient foot-passengers, waiting long on street corners for opportunityto cross the way. 

On one of these corners paused Richling. He had not found employment, but you could not read that in his face; as well as he knew himself, hehad come forward into the world prepared amiably and patiently to be, todo, to suffer anything, provided it was not wrong or ignominious. He didnot see that even this is not enough in this rough world; nothing hadyet taught him that one must often gently suffer rudeness and wrong. Asto what constitutes ignominy he had a very young man's--and, shall weadd? a very American--idea. He could not have believed, had he beentold, how many establishments he had passed by, omitting to apply inthem for employment. He little dreamed he had been too select. He hadentered not into any house of the Samaritans, to use a figure; muchless, to speak literally, had he gone to the lost sheep of the house ofIsrael. Mary, hiding away in uncomfortable quarters a short stone'sthrow from Madame Zénobie's, little imagined that, in her broad ironyabout his not hunting for employment, there was really a tiny seed oftruth. She felt sure that two or three persons who had seemed about toemploy him had failed to do so because they detected the defect in hishearing, and in one or two cases she was right. 

Other persons paused on the same corner where Richling stood, under thesame momentary embarrassment. One man, especially busy-looking, drewvery near him. And then and there occurred this simple accident, --thatat last he came in contact with the man who had work to give him. Thisperson good-humoredly offered an impatient comment on their enforceddelay. Richling answered in sympathetic spirit, and the first speakerresponded with a question:--

"Stranger in the city?"

"Yes. "

"Buying goods for up-country?"

It was a pleasant feature of New Orleans life that sociability tostrangers on the street was not the exclusive prerogative of gamblers'decoys. 

"No; I'm looking for employment. "

"Aha!" said the man, and moved away a little. But in a moment Richling, becoming aware that his questioner was glancing all over him withcritical scrutiny, turned, and the man spoke. 

"D'you keep books?"

Just then a way opened among the vehicles; and the man, young andmuscular, darted into it, and Richling followed. 

"I _can_ keep books, " he said, as they reached the farther curb-stone. 

The man seized him by the arm. 

"D'you see that pile of codfish and herring where that tall man is atwork yonder with a marking-pot and brush? Well, just beyond there is aboarding-house, and then a hardware store; you can hear them throwingdown sheets of iron. Here; you can see the sign. See? Well, the next ismy store. Go in there--upstairs into the office--and wait till I come. "

Richling bowed and went. In the office he sat down and waited whatseemed a very long time. Could he have misunderstood? For the man didnot come. There was a person sitting at a desk on the farther side ofthe office, writing, who had not lifted his head from first to last, Richling said:--

"Can you tell me when the proprietor will be in?"

The writer's eyes rose, and dropped again upon his writing. 

"What do you want with him?"

"He asked me to wait here for him. "

"Better wait, then. "

Just then in came the merchant. Richling rose, and he uttered a rudeexclamation:--

"_I_ forgot you completely! Where did you say you kept books at, last?"

"I've not kept anybody's books yet, but I can do it. "

The merchant's response was cold and prompt. He did not look atRichling, but took a sample vial of molasses from a dirty mantel-pieceand lifted it between his eyes and the light, saying:--

"You can't do any such thing. I don't want you. "

"Sir, " said Richling, so sharply that the merchant looked round, "if youdon't want me I don't want you; but you mustn't attempt to tell me thatwhat I say is not true!" He had stepped forward as he began to speak, but he stopped before half his words were uttered, and saw his folly. Even while his voice still trembled with passion and his head was up, hecolored with mortification. That feeling grew no less when his offendersimply looked at him, and the man at the desk did not raise his eyes. Itrather increased when he noticed that both of them were young--as youngas he. 

"I don't doubt your truthfulness, " said the merchant, marking the effectof his forbearance; "but you ought to know you can't come in and takecharge of a large set of books in the midst of a busy season, whenyou've never kept books before. "

"I don't know it at all. "

"Well, I do, " said the merchant, still more coldly than before. "Thereare my books, " he added, warming, and pointed to three great canvassedand black-initialled volumes standing in a low iron safe, "left onlyyesterday in such a snarl, by a fellow who had 'never kept books, butknew how, ' that I shall have to open another set! After this I shallhave a book-keeper who has kept books. "

He turned away. 

Some weeks afterward Richling recalled vividly a thought that had struckhim only faintly at this time: that, beneath much superficial severityand energy, there was in this establishment a certain looseness ofmanagement. It may have been this half-recognized thought that gave himcourage, now, to say, advancing another step:--

"One word, if you please. "

"It's no use, my friend. "

"It may be. "

"How?"

"Get an experienced book-keeper for your new set of books"--

"You can bet your bottom dollar!" said the merchant, turning again andrunning his hands down into his lower pockets. "And even he'll have asmuch as he can do"--

"That is just what I wanted you to say, " interrupted Richling, tryinghard to smile; "then you can let me straighten up the old set. "

"Give a new hand the work of an expert!"

The merchant almost laughed out. He shook his head and was about to saymore, when Richling persisted:--

"If I don't do the work to your satisfaction don't pay me a cent. "

"I never make that sort of an arrangement; no, sir!"

Unfortunately it had not been Richling's habit to show this pertinacity, else life might have been easier to him as a problem; but these twoyoung men, his equals in age, were casting amused doubts upon hisability to make good his professions. The case was peculiar. He reacheda hand out toward the books. 

"Let me look over them for one day; if I don't convince you the nextmorning in five minutes that I can straighten them I'll leave themwithout a word. "

The merchant looked down an instant, and then turned to the man at thedesk. 

"What do you think of that, Sam?"

Sam set his elbows upon the desk, took the small end of his pen-holderin his hands and teeth, and, looking up, said:--

"I don't know; you might--try him. "

"What did you say your name was?" asked the other, again facingRichling. "Ah, yes! Who are your references, Mr. Richmond?"

"Sir?" Richling leaned slightly forward and turned his ear. 

"I say, who knows you?"

"Nobody. "

"Nobody! Where are you from?"

"Milwaukee. "

The merchant tossed out his arm impatiently. 

"Oh, I can't do that kind o' business. "

He turned abruptly, went to his desk, and, sitting down half-hidden byit, took up an open letter. 

"I bought that coffee, Sam, " he said, rising again and moving fartheraway. 

"Um-hum, " said Sam; and all was still. 

Richling stood expecting every instant to turn on the next and go. Yethe went not. Under the dusty front windows of the counting-room thestreet was roaring below. Just beyond a glass partition at his back agreat windlass far up under the roof was rumbling with the descent ofgoods from a hatchway at the end of its tense rope. Salesmen werecalling, trucks were trundling, shipping clerks and porters werereplying. One brawny fellow he saw, through the glass, take a herringfrom a broken box, and stop to feed it to a sleek, brindled mouser. Eventhe cat was valued; but he--he stood there absolutely zero. He saw it. He saw it as he never had seen it before in his life. This truth smotehim like a javelin: that all this world wants is a man's permission todo without him. Right then it was that he thought he swallowed all hispride; whereas he only tasted its bitter brine as like a wave it tookhim up and lifted him forward bodily. He strode up to the desk beyondwhich stood the merchant, with the letter still in his hand, and said:--

"I've not gone yet! I may have to be turned off by you, but not in thismanner!"

The merchant looked around at him with a smile of surprise, mixed withamusement and commendation, but said nothing. Richling held out his openhand. 

"I don't ask you to trust me. Don't trust me. Try me!"

He looked distressed. He was not begging, but he seemed to feel asthough he were. 

The merchant dropped his eyes again upon the letter, and in thatattitude asked:--

"What do you say, Sam?"

"He can't hurt anything, " said Sam. 

The merchant looked suddenly at Richling. 

"You're not from Milwaukee. You're a Southern man. "

Richling changed color. 

"I said Milwaukee. "

"Well, " said the merchant, "I hardly know. Come and see me further aboutit to-morrow morning. I haven't time to talk now. "

 * * *

"Take a seat, " he said, the next morning, and drew up a chair sociablybefore the returned applicant. "Now, suppose I was to give you thosebooks, all in confusion as they are, what would you do first of all?"

Mary fortunately had asked the same question the night before, and herhusband was entirely ready with an answer which they had studied out inbed. 

"I should send your deposit-book to bank to be balanced, and, withoutwaiting for it, I should begin to take a trial-balance off the books. IfI didn't get one pretty soon, I'd drop that for the time being, and turnin and render the accounts of everybody on the books, asking them toexamine and report. "

"All right, " said the merchant, carelessly; "we'll try you. "

"Sir?" Richling bent his ear. 

"_All right; we'll try you!_ I don't care much about recommendations. Igenerally most always make up my opinion about a man from looking athim. I'm that sort of a man. "

He smiled with inordinate complacency. 

So, week by week, as has been said already, the winter passed, --Richlingon one side of the town, hidden away in his work, and Dr. Sevier on theother, very positive that the "young pair" must have returned toMilwaukee. 

At length the big books were readjusted in all their hundreds of pages, were balanced, and closed. Much satisfaction was expressed; but anotherman had meantime taken charge of the new books, --one who influencedbusiness, and Richling had nothing to do but put on his hat. 

However, the house cheerfully recommended him to a neighboring firm, which also had disordered books to be righted; and so more weeks passed. Happy weeks! Happy days! Ah, the joy of them! John bringing home money, and Mary saving it!

"But, John, it seems such a pity not to have stayed with A, B, & Co. ;doesn't it?"

"I don't think so. I don't think they'll last much longer. "

And when he brought word that A, B, & Co. Had gone into a thousandpieces Mary was convinced that she had a very far-seeing husband. 

By and by, at Richling's earnest and restless desire, they moved theirlodgings again. And thus we return by a circuit to the morning when Dr. Sevier, taking up his slate, read the summons that bade him call at thecorner of St. Mary and Prytania streets. 

CHAPTER IX. 

WHEN THE WIND BLOWS. 

The house stands there to-day. A small, pinched, frame, ground-floor-and-attic, double tenement, with its roof sloping towardSt. Mary street and overhanging its two door-steps that jut out on thesidewalk. There the Doctor's carriage stopped, and in its front room hefound Mary in bed again, as ill as ever. A humble German woman, livingin the adjoining half of the house, was attending to the invalid'swants, and had kept her daughter from the public school to send her tothe apothecary with the Doctor's prescription. 

"It is the poor who help the poor, " thought the physician. 

"Is this your home?" he asked the woman softly, as he sat down by thepatient's pillow. He looked about upon the small, cheaply furnishedroom, full of the neat makeshifts of cramped housewifery. 

"It's mine, " whispered Mary. Even as she lay there in peril of her life, and flattened out as though Juggernaut had rolled over her, her eyesshone with happiness and scintillated as the Doctor exclaimed inundertone:--

"Yours!" He laid his hand upon her forehead. "Where is Mr. Richling?"

"At the office. " Her eyes danced with delight. She would have begun, then and there, to tell him all that had happened, --"had taken care ofherself all along, " she said, "until they began to move. In moving, hadbeen _obliged_ to overwork--hardly _fixed_ yet"--

But the Doctor gently checked her and bade her be quiet. 

"I will, " was the faint reply; "I will; but--just one thing, Doctor, please let me say. "

"Well?"

"John"--

"Yes, yes; I know; he'd be here, only you wouldn't let him stay awayfrom his work. "

She smiled assent, and he smiled in return. 

"'Business is business, '" he said. 

She turned a quick, sparkling glance of affirmation, as if she hadlately had some trouble to maintain that ancient truism. She was goingto speak again, but the Doctor waved his hand downward soothingly towardthe restless form and uplifted eyes. 

"All right, " she whispered, and closed them. 

The next day she was worse. The physician found himself, to use hiswords, "only the tardy attendant of offended nature. " When he droppedhis finger-ends gently upon her temple she tremblingly grasped his hand. 

"You'll save me?" she whispered. 

"Yes, " he replied; "we'll do that--the Lord helping us. "

A glad light shone from her face as he uttered the latter clause. Whereat he made haste to add:--

"I don't pray, but I'm sure you do. "

She silently pressed the hand she still held. 

On Sunday he found Richling at the bedside. Mary had improvedconsiderably in two or three days. She lay quite still as they talked, only shifting her glance softly from one to the other as one and thenthe other spoke. The Doctor heard with interest Richling's full accountof all that had occurred since he had met them last together. Mary'seyes filled with merriment when John told the droller part of theirexperiences in the hard quarters from which they had only latelyremoved. But the Doctor did not so much as smile. Richling finished, and the physician was silent. 

"Oh, we're getting along, " said Richling, stroking the small, weak handthat lay near him on the coverlet. But still the Doctor kept silence. 

"Of course, " said Richling, very quietly, looking at his wife, "wemustn't be surprised at a backset now and then. But we're getting on. "

Mary turned her eyes toward the Doctor. Was he not going to assent atall? She seemed about to speak. He bent his ear, and she said, with aquiet smile:--

"'When the wind blows, the cradle will rock. '"

The physician gave only a heavy-eyed "Humph!" and a faint look ofamusement. 

"What did she say?" said Richling; the words had escaped his ear. TheDoctor repeated it, and Richling, too, smiled. 

Yet it was a good speech, --why not? But the patient also smiled, andturned her eyes toward the wall with a disconcerted look, as if thesmile might end in tears. For herein lay the very difficulty that alwaysbrought the Doctor's carriage to the door, --the cradle would not rock. 

For a few days more that carriage continued to appear, and then ceased. Richling dropped in one morning at Number 3-1/2 Carondelet, and settledhis bill with Narcisse. 

The young Creole was much pleased to be at length brought into actualcontact with a man of his own years, who, without visible effort, hadmade an impression on Dr. Sevier. 

Until the money had been paid and the bill receipted nothing more thana formal business phrase or two passed between them. But as Narcissedelivered the receipted bill, with an elaborate gesture of courtesy, andRichling began to fold it for his pocket, the Creole remarked:--

"I 'ope you will excuse the 'an'-a-'iting. "

Richling reopened the paper; the penmanship was beautiful. 

"Do you ever write better than this?" he asked. "Why, I wish I couldwrite half as well!"

"No; I do not fine that well a-'itten. I cannot see 'ow that is, --Inevva 'ite to the satizfagtion of my abil'ty soon in the mawnin's. I amdest'oying my chi'og'aphy at that desk yeh. "

"Indeed?" said Richling; "why, I should think"--

"Yesseh, 'tis the tooth. But consunning the chi'og'aphy, Mistoo Itchlin, I 'ave descovvud one thing to a maul cettainty, and that is, if I 'avesomething to 'ite to a young lady, I always dizguise my chi'og'aphy. Ha-ah! I 'ave learn that! You will be aztonizh' to see in 'ow manydiffe'n' fawm' I can make my 'an'-a-'iting to appeah. That paz thoo myfam'ly, in fact, Mistoo Itchlin. My hant, she's got a honcle w'at use'to be cluck in a bank, w'at could make the si'natu'e of the pwesiden', as well as of the cashieh, with that so absolute puffegtion, that theytu'n 'im out of the bank! Yesseh. In fact, I thing you ought to know 'owto 'ite a ve'y fine 'an', Mistoo Itchlin. "

"N-not very, " said Richling; "my hand is large and legible, but not welladapted for--book-keeping; it's too heavy. "

"You 'ave the 'ight physio'nomie, I am shu'. You will pe'haps believe mewith difficulty, Mistoo Itchlin, but I assu' you I can tell if a man 'asa fine chi'og'aphy aw no, by juz lookin' upon his liniment. Do you knowthat Benjamin Fwanklin 'ote a v'ey fine chi'og'aphy, in fact? Also, Voltaire. Yesseh. An' Napoleon Bonaparte. Lawd By'on muz 'ave 'ad abeaucheouz chi'og'aphy. 'Tis impossible not to be, with that face. He ismy favo'ite poet, that Lawd By'on. Moze people pwefeh 'im to Shakspere, in fact. Well, you muz go? I am ve'y 'appy to meck yo' acquaintanze, Mistoo Itchlin, seh. I am so'y Doctah Seveeah is not theh pwesently. Thenegs time you call, Mistoo Itchlin, you muz not be too much aztonizh tofine me gone from yeh. Yesseh. He's got to haugment me ad the en' ofthat month, an' we 'ave to-day the fifteenth Mawch. Do you smoke, MistooItchlin?" He extended a package of cigarettes. Richling accepted one. "Ismoke lawgely in that weatheh, " striking a match on his thigh. "I feelve'y sultwy to-day. Well, "--he seized the visitor's hand, --"_au' evoi'_, Mistoo Itchlin. " And Narcisse returned to his desk happy in theconviction that Richling had gone away dazzled. 

CHAPTER X. 

GENTLES AND COMMONS. 

Dr. Sevier sat in the great easy-chair under the drop-light of hislibrary table trying to read a book. But his thought was not on thepage. He expired a long breath of annoyance, and lifted his glancebackward from the bottom of the page to its top. 

Why must his mind keep going back to that little cottage in St. Marystreet? What good reason was there? Would they thank him for hissolicitude? Indeed! He almost smiled his contempt of the supposition. Why, when on one or two occasions he had betrayed a least little bit ofkindly interest, --what? Up had gone their youthful vivacity like anumbrella. Oh, yes!--like all young folks--_their_ affairs were intenselyprivate. Once or twice he had shaken his head at the scantiness of alltheir provisions for life. Well? They simply and unconsciously stole ahold upon one another's hand or arm, as much as to say, "To love isenough. " When, gentlemen of the jury, it isn't enough!

"Pshaw!" The word escaped him audibly. He drew partly up from his halfrecline, and turned back a leaf of the book to try once more to make outthe sense of it. 

But there was Mary, and there was her husband. Especially Mary. Herimage came distinctly between his eyes and the page. There she was, justas on his last visit, --a superfluous one--no charge, --sitting and plyingher needle, unaware of his approach, gently moving her rocking-chair, and softly singing, "Flow on, thou shining river, "--the song his ownwife used to sing. "O child, child! do you think it's always going to be'shining'?" They shouldn't be so contented. Was pride under that cloak?Oh, no, no! But even if the content was genuine, it wasn't good. Why, they oughtn't to be _able_ to be happy so completely out of their truesphere. It showed insensibility. But, there again, --Richling wasn'tinsensible, much less Mary. 

The Doctor let his book sink, face downward, upon his knee. 

"They're too big to be playing in the sand. " He took up the book again. "'Tisn't my business to tell them so. " But before he got the volumefairly before his eyes his professional bell rang, and he tossed thebook upon the table. 

"Well, why don't you bring him in?" he asked, in a tone of reproof, of aservant who presented a card; and in a moment the visitor entered. 

He was a person of some fifty years of age, with a patrician face, inwhich it was impossible to tell where benevolence ended and pride began. His dress was of fine cloth, a little antique in cut, and fitting ratherloosely on a form something above the medium height, of good width, butbent in the shoulders, and with arms that had been stronger. Years, itmight be, or possibly some unflinching struggle with troublesome facts, had given many lines of his face a downward slant. He apologized for thehour of his call, and accepted with thanks the chair offered him. 

"You are not a resident of the city?" asked Dr. Sevier. 

"I am from Kentucky. " The voice was rich, and the stranger's generalair one of rather conscious social eminence. 

"Yes?" said the Doctor, not specially pleased, and looked at him closer. He wore a black satin neck-stock, and dark-blue buttoned gaiters. Hishair was dyed brown. A slender frill adorned his shirt-front. 

"Mrs. "--the visitor began to say, not giving the name, but waving hisindex-finger toward his card, which Dr. Sevier had laid upon the table, just under the lamp, --"my wife, Doctor, seems to be in a very feeblecondition. Her physicians have advised her to try the effects of achange of scene, and I have brought her down to your busy city, sir. "

The Doctor assented. The stranger resumed:--

"Its hurry and energy are a great contrast to the plantation life, sir. "

"They're very unlike, " the physician admitted. 

"This chafing of thousands of competitive designs, " said the visitor, "this great fretwork of cross purposes, is a decided change from thequiet order of our rural life. Hmm! There everything is under theadministration of one undisputed will, and is executed by theunquestioning obedience of our happy and contented slave peasantry. Iprefer the country. But I thought this was just the change that wouldarouse and electrify an invalid who has really no tangible complaint. "

"Has the result been unsatisfactory?"

"Entirely so. I am unexpectedly disappointed. " The speaker's thoughtseemed to be that the climate of New Orleans had not responded withthat hospitable alacrity which was due so opulent, reasonable, anduniversally obeyed a guest. 

There was a pause here, and Dr. Sevier looked around at the book whichlay at his elbow. But the visitor did not resume, and the Doctorpresently asked:--

"Do you wish me to see your wife?"

"I called to see you alone first, " said the other, "because there mightbe questions to be asked which were better answered in her absence. "

"Then you think you know the secret of her illness, do you?"

"I do. I think, indeed I may say I know, it is--bereavement. "

The Doctor compressed his lips and bowed. 

The stranger drooped his head somewhat, and, resting his elbows on thearms of his chair, laid the tips of his thumbs and fingers softlytogether. 

"The truth is, sir, she cannot recover from the loss of our son. "

"An infant?" asked the Doctor. His bell rang again as he put thequestion. 

"No, sir; a young man, --one whom I had thought a person of greatpromise; just about to enter life. "

"When did he die?"

"He has been dead nearly a year. I"-- The speaker ceased as themulatto waiting-man appeared at the open door, with a large, simple, German face looking easily over his head from behind. 

"Toctor, " said the owner of this face, lifting an immense open hand, "Toctor, uf you bleace, Toctor, you vill bleace ugscooce me. "

The Doctor frowned at the servant for permitting the interruption. Butthe gentleman beside him said:--

"Let him come in, sir; he seems to be in haste, sir, and I am not, --I amnot, at all. "

"Come in, " said the physician. 

The new-comer stepped into the room. He was about six feet three inchesin height, three feet six in breadth, and the same in thickness. Twokindly blue eyes shone softly in an expanse of face that had beenclean-shaven every Saturday night for many years, and that ended in aretreating chin and a dewlap. The limp, white shirt-collar just belowwas without a necktie, and the waist of his pantaloons, which seemedintended to supply this deficiency, did not quite, but only almostreached up to the unoccupied blank. He removed from his respectful heada soft gray hat, whitened here and there with flour. 

"Yentlemen, " he said, slowly, "you vill ugscooce me to interruptetyou, --yentlemen. "

"Do you wish to see me?" asked Dr. Sevier. 

The German made an odd gesture of deferential assent, lifting one openhand a little in front of him to the level of his face, with the wristbent forward and the fingers pointing down. 

"Uf you bleace, Toctor, I toose; undt tat's te fust time I effer _tit_vanted a toctor. Undt you mus' ugscooce me, Toctor, to callin' on you, ovver I vish you come undt see mine"--

To the surprise of all, tears gushed from his eyes. 

"Mine poor vife, Toctor!" He turned to one side, pointed his broad handtoward the floor, and smote his forehead. 

"I yoost come in fun mine paykery undt comin' into mine howse, fen--Isee someting"--he waved his hand downward again--"someting--layin' onte--floor--face pleck ans a nigger's; undt fen I look to see who udtiss, --_udt is Mississ Reisen_! Toctor, I vish you come right off! Icouldn't shtayndt udt you toandt come right avay!"

"I'll come, " said the Doctor, without rising; "just write your name andaddress on that little white slate yonder. "

"Toctor, " said the German, extending and dipping his hat, "I'm ferramuch a-velcome to you, Toctor; undt tat's yoost fot te pottekerra bymine corner sayt you vould too. He sayss, 'Reisen, ' he sayss, 'you yoostco to Toctor Tsewier. '" He bent his great body over the farther end ofthe table and slowly worked out his name, street, and number. "Dtere udtiss, Toctor; I put udt town on teh schlate; ovver, I hope you ugscoocete hayndtwriding. "

"Very well. That's right. That's all. "

The German lingered. The Doctor gave a bow of dismission. 

"That's all, I say. I'll be there in a moment. That's all. Dan, order mycarriage!"

"Yentlemen, you vill ugscooce me?"

The German withdrew, returning each gentleman's bow with a faint wave ofthe hat. 

During this interview the more polished stranger had sat with bowedhead, motionless and silent, lifting it only once and for a moment atthe German's emotional outburst. Then the upward and backward turnedface was marked with a commiseration partly artificial, but also partlynatural. He now looked up at the Doctor. 

"I shall have to leave you, " said the Doctor. 

"Certainly, sir, " replied the other; "by all means!" The willingnesswas slightly overdone and the benevolence of tone was mixed withcomplacency. "By all means, " he said again; "this is one of those caseswhere it is only a proper grace in the higher to yield place to thelower. " He waited for a response, but the Doctor merely frowned intospace and called for his boots. The visitor resumed:--

"I have a good deal of feeling, sir, for the unlettered and the vulgar. They have their station, but they have also--though doubtless in smallercapacity than we--their pleasures and pains. "

Seeing the Doctor ready to go, he began to rise. 

"I may not be gone long, " said the physician, rather coldly; "if youchoose to wait"--

"I thank you; n-no-o"--The visitor stopped between a sitting and arising posture. 

"Here are books, " said the Doctor, "and the evening papers, --'Picayune, ''Delta, ' 'True Delta. '" It seemed for a moment as though the gentlemanmight sink into his seat again. "And there's the 'New York Herald. '"

"No, sir!" said the visitor quickly, rising and smoothing himself out;"nothing from that quarter, if you please. " Yet he smiled. The Doctordid not notice that, while so smiling, he took his card from the table. There was something familiar in the stranger's face which the Doctor wastrying to make out. They left the house together. Outside the streetdoor the physician made apologetic allusion to their interruptedinterview. 

"Shall I see you at my office to-morrow? I would be happy"--

The stranger had raised his hat. He smiled again, as pleasantly as hecould, which was not delightful, and said, after a moment'shesitation:--

"--Possibly. "

CHAPTER XI. 

A PANTOMIME. 

It chanced one evening about this time--the vernal equinox had justpassed--that from some small cause Richling, who was generally detainedat the desk until a late hour, was home early. The air was soft andwarm, and he stood out a little beyond his small front door-step, lifting his head to inhale the universal fragrance, and looking inevery moment, through the unlighted front room, toward a part of thediminutive house where a mild rattle of domestic movements could beheard, and whence he had, a little before, been adroitly requested toabsent himself. He moved restlessly on his feet, blowing a soft tune. 

Presently he placed a foot on the step and a hand on the door-post, andgave a low, urgent call. 

A distant response indicated that his term of suspense was nearly over. He turned about again once or twice, and a moment later Mary appeared inthe door, came down upon the sidewalk, looked up into the moonlit skyand down the empty, silent street, then turned and sat down, throwingher wrists across each other in her lap, and lifting her eyes to herhusband's with a smile that confessed her fatigue. 

The moon was regal. It cast its deep contrasts of clear-cut light andshadow among the thin, wooden, unarchitectural forms and weed-grownvacancies of the half-settled neighborhood, investing the matter-of-factwith mystery, and giving an unexpected charm to the unpicturesque. Itwas--as Richling said, taking his place beside his wife--midspring inMarch. As he spoke he noticed she had brought with her the odor offlowers. They were pinned at her throat. 

"Where did you get them?" he asked, touching them with his fingers. 

Her face lighted up. 

"Guess. "

How could he guess? As far as he knew neither she nor he had made anacquaintance in the neighborhood. He shook his head, and she replied:--

"The butcher. "

"You're a queer girl, " he said, when they had laughed. 

"Why?"

"You let these common people take to you so. "

She smiled, with a faint air of concern. 

"You don't dislike it, do you?" she asked. 

"Oh, no, " he said, indifferently, and spoke of other things. 

And thus they sat, like so many thousands and thousands of young pairsin this wide, free America, offering the least possible interest tothe great human army round about them, but sharing, or believing theyshared, in the fruitful possibilities of this land of limitless bounty, fondling their hopes and recounting the petty minutić of their dailyexperiences. Their converse was mainly in the form of questions fromMary and answers from John. 

"And did he say that he would?" etc. "And didn't you insist that heshould?" etc. "I don't understand how he could require you to, " etc. , etc. Looking at everything from John's side, as if there never could beany other, until at last John himself laughed softly when she asked whyhe couldn't take part of some outdoor man's work, and give him part ofhis own desk-work in exchange, and why he couldn't say plainly that hiswork was too sedentary. 

Then she proposed a walk in the moonlight, and insisted she was nottired; she wanted it on her own account. And so, when Richling had goneinto the house and returned with some white worsted gauze for her headand neck and locked the door, they were ready to start. 

They were tarrying a moment to arrange this wrapping when they found itnecessary to move aside from where they stood in order to let twopersons pass on the sidewalk. 

These were a man and woman, who had at least reached middle age. Thewoman wore a neatly fitting calico gown; the man, a short pilot-coat. His pantaloons were very tight and pale. A new soft hat was pushedforward from the left rear corner of his closely cropped head, withthe front of the brim turned down over his right eye. At each step hesettled down with a little jerk alternately on this hip and that, at thesame time faintly dropping the corresponding shoulder. They passed. Johnand Mary looked at each other with a nod of mirthful approval. Why?Because the strangers walked silently hand-in-hand. 

It was a magical night. Even the part of town where they were, so devoidof character by day, had become all at once romantic with phantasmallights and glooms, echoes and silences. Along the edge of a widechimney-top on one blank, new hulk of a house, that nothing else couldhave made poetical, a mocking-bird hopped and ran back and forth, singing as if he must sing or die. The mere names of the streets theytraversed suddenly became sweet food for the fancy. Down at the firstcorner below they turned into one that had been an old country road, and was still named Felicity. 

Richling called attention to the word painted on a board. He merelypointed to it in playful silence, and then let his hand sink and reston hers as it lay in his elbow. They were walking under the low boughsof a line of fig-trees that overhung a high garden wall. Then some gaythought took him; but when his downward glance met the eyes uplifted tomeet his they were grave, and there came an instantaneous tendernessinto the exchange of looks that would have been worse than uninterestingto you or me. But the next moment she brightened up, pressed herselfclose to him, and caught step. They had not owned each other long enoughto have settled into sedate possession, though they sometimes thoughtthey had done so. There was still a tingling ecstasy in one another'stouch and glance that prevented them from quite behaving themselves whenunder the moon. 

For instance, now, they began, though in cautious undertone, to sing. Some person approached them, and they hushed. When the stranger hadpassed, Mary began again another song, alone:--

 "Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?"

"Hush!" said John, softly. 

She looked up with an air of mirthful inquiry, and he added:--

"That was the name of Dr. Sevier's wife. "

"But he doesn't hear me singing. "

"No; but it seems as if he did. "

And they sang no more. 

They entered a broad, open avenue, with a treeless, grassy way in themiddle, up which came a very large and lumbering street-car, withsmokers' benches on the roof, and drawn by tandem horses. 

"Here we turn down, " said Richling, "into the way of the Naiads. " (Thatwas the street's name. ) "They're not trying to get me away. "

He looked down playfully. She was clinging to him with more energy thanshe knew. 

"I'd better hold you tight, " she answered. Both laughed. The nonsense ofthose we love is better than the finest wit on earth. They walked on intheir bliss. Shall we follow? Fie!

They passed down across three or four of a group of parallel streetsnamed for the nine muses. At Thalia they took the left, went one square, and turned up by another street toward home. 

Their conversation had flagged. Silence was enough. The great earth wasbeneath their feet, firm and solid; the illimitable distances of theheavens stretched above their heads and before their eyes. Here was Maryat John's side, and John at hers; John her property and she his, andtime flowing softly, shiningly on. Yea, even more. If one might believethe names of the streets, there were Naiads on the left and Dryads onthe right; a little farther on, Hercules; yonder corner the darktrysting-place of Bacchus and Melpomene; and here, just in advance, the corner where Terpsichore crossed the path of Apollo. 

They came now along a high, open fence that ran the entire lengthof a square. Above it a dense rank of bitter orange-trees overhung thesidewalk, their dark mass of foliage glittering in the moonlight. Withinlay a deep, old-fashioned garden. Its white shell-walks gleamed in manydirections. A sweet breath came from its parterres of mingled hyacinthsand jonquils that hid themselves every moment in black shadows oflagustrums and laurestines. Here, in severe order, a pair of palms, primas medićval queens, stood over against each other; and in the midst ofthe garden, rising high against the sky, appeared the pillared verandaand immense, four-sided roof of an old French colonial villa, as itstands unchanged to-day. 

The two loiterers slackened their pace to admire the scene. There wasmuch light shining from the house. Mary could hear voices, and, in amoment, words. The host was speeding his parting guests. 

"The omnibus will put you out only one block from the hotel, " some onesaid. 

 * * *

Dr. Sevier, returning home from a visit to a friend in Polymnia street, had scarcely got well seated in the omnibus before he witnessed from itswindow a singular dumb show. He had handed his money up to the driver asthey crossed Euterpe street, had received the change and deposited hisfare as they passed Terpsichore, and was just sitting down when the onlyother passenger in the vehicle said, half-rising:--

"Hello! there's going to be a shooting scrape!"

A rather elderly man and woman on the sidewalk, both of them extremelywell dressed, and seemingly on the eve of hailing the omnibus, suddenlytransferred their attention to a younger couple a few steps from them, who appeared to have met them entirely by accident. The elderly ladythrew out her arms toward the younger man with an expression on her faceof intensest mental suffering. She seemed to cry out; but the deafeningrattle of the omnibus, as it approached them, intercepted the sound. All four of the persons seemed, in various ways, to experience the mostviolent feelings. The young man more than once moved as if about tostart forward, yet did not advance; his companion, a small, very shapelywoman, clung to him excitedly and pleadingly. The older man shook astout cane at the younger, talking furiously as he did so. He held theelderly lady to him with his arm thrown about her, while she now casther hands upward, now covered her face with them, now wrung them, clasped them, or extended one of them in seeming accusation against theyounger person of her own sex. In a moment the omnibus was opposite thegroup. The Doctor laid his hand on his fellow-passenger's arm. 

"Don't get out. There will be no shooting. "

The young man on the sidewalk suddenly started forward, with hiscompanion still on his farther arm, and with his eyes steadily fixed onthose of the elder and taller man, a clenched fist lifted defensively, and with a tense, defiant air walked hurriedly and silently by withineasy sweep of the uplifted staff. At the moment when the slight distancebetween the two men began to increase, the cane rose higher, but stoppedshort in its descent and pointed after the receding figure. 

"I command you to leave this town, sir!"

Dr. Sevier looked. He looked with all his might, drawing his knee underhim on the cushion and leaning out. The young man had passed. He stillmoved on, turning back as he went a face full of the fear that men showwhen they are afraid of their own violence; and, as the omnibusclattered away, he crossed the street at the upper corner anddisappeared in the shadows. 

"That's a very strange thing, " said the other passenger to Dr. Sevier, as they resumed the corner seats by the door. 

"It certainly is!" replied the Doctor, and averted his face. For whenthe group and he were nearest together and the moon shone brightlyupon the four, he saw, beyond all question, that the older man was hisvisitor of a few evenings before and that the younger pair were John andMary Richling. 

CHAPTER XII. 

"SHE'S ALL THE WORLD. "

Excellent neighborhood, St. Mary street, and Prytania was even better. Everybody was very retired though, it seemed. Almost every housestanding in the midst of its shady garden, --sunny gardens are a newerfashion of the town, --a bell-knob on the gate-post, and the gate locked. But the Richlings cared nothing for this; not even what they should havecared. Nor was there any unpleasantness in another fact. 

"Do you let this window stand wide this way when you are at work here, all day?" asked the husband. The opening alluded to was on Prytaniastreet, and looked across the way to where the asylumed widows of "StAnna's" could glance down into it over their poor little window-gardens. 

"Why, yes, dear!" Mary looked up from her little cane rocker with thatthoughtful contraction at the outer corners of her eyes and thatilluminated smile that between them made half her beauty. And then, somewhat more gravely and persuasively: "Don't you suppose they like it?They must like it. I think we can do that much for them. Would yourather I'd shut it?"

For answer John laid his hand on her head and gazed into her eyes. 

"Take care, " she whispered; "they'll see you. "

He let his arm drop in amused despair. 

"Why, what's the window open for? And, anyhow, they're all abed andasleep these two hours. "

They did like it, those aged widows. It fed their hearts' hunger tosee the pretty unknown passing and repassing that open window in theperformance of her morning duties, or sitting down near it with herneedle, still crooning her soft morning song, --poor, almost as poor asthey, in this world's glitter; but rich in hope and courage, and richbeyond all count in the content of one who finds herself queen of everso little a house, where love is. 

"Love is enough!" said the widows. 

And certainly she made it seem so. The open window brought, now andthen, a moisture to the aged eyes, yet they liked it open. 

But, without warning one day, there was a change. It was the day afterDr. Sevier had noticed that queer street quarrel. The window was notclosed, but it sent out no more light. The song was not heard, and manysmall, faint signs gave indication that anxiety had come to be a guestin the little house. At evening the wife was seen in her front door andabout its steps, watching in a new, restless way for her husband'scoming; and when he came it could be seen, all the way from those upperwindows, where one or two faces appeared now and then, that he wastroubled and care-worn. There were two more days like this one; but atthe end of the fourth the wife read good tidings in her husband'scountenance. He handed her a newspaper, and pointed to a list ofdeparting passengers. 

"They're gone!" she exclaimed. 

He nodded, and laid off his hat. She cast her arms about his neck, andburied her head in his bosom. You could almost have seen Anxiety flyingout at the window. By morning the widows knew of a certainty that thecloud had melted away. 

In the counting-room one evening, as Richling said good-night withnoticeable alacrity, one of his employers, sitting with his legs crossedover the top of a desk, said to his partner:--

"Richling works for his wages. "

"That's all, " replied the other; "he don't see his interests in ours anymore than a tinsmith would, who comes to mend the roof. "

The first one took a meditative puff or two from his cigar, tipped offits ashes, and responded:--

"Common fault. He completely overlooks his immense indebtedness to theworld at large, and his dependence on it. He's a good fellow, andbright; but he actually thinks that he and the world are starting even. "

"His wife's his world, " said the other, and opened the Bills Payablebook. Who will say it is not well to sail in an ocean of love? But theRichlings were becalmed in theirs, and, not knowing it, were satisfied. 

Day in, day out, the little wife sat at her window, and drove herneedle. Omnibuses rumbled by; an occasional wagon or cart set the dusta-flying; the street venders passed, crying the praises of their goodsand wares; the blue sky grew more and more intense as weeks piled upupon weeks; but the empty repetitions, and the isolation, and, worst ofall, the escape of time, --she smiled at all, and sewed on and croonedon, in the sufficient thought that John would come, each time, when onlyhours enough had passed away forever. 

Once she saw Dr. Sevier's carriage. She bowed brightly, but he--whatcould it mean?--he lifted his hat with such austere gravity. Dr. Sevierwas angry. He had no definite charge to make, but that did not lessenhis displeasure. After long, unpleasant wondering, and long trusting tosee Richling some day on the street, he had at length driven by thisway purposely to see if they had indeed left town, as they had been soimperiously commanded to do. 

This incident, trivial as it was, roused Mary to thought; and all therest of the day the thought worked with energy to dislodge the frame ofmind that she had acquired from her husband. 

When John came home that night and pressed her to his bosom she wassilent. And when he held her off a little and looked into her eyes, andshe tried to better her smile, those eyes stood full to the lashes andshe looked down. 

"What's the matter?" asked he, quickly. 

"Nothing!" She looked up again, with a little laugh. 

He took a chair and drew her down upon his lap. 

"What's the matter with my girl?"

"I don't know. "

"How, --you don't know?"

"Why, I simply don't. I can't make out what it is. If I could I'd tellyou; but I don't know at all. " After they had sat silent a fewmoments:--

"I wonder"--she began. 

"You wonder what?" asked he, in a rallying tone. 

"I wonder if there's such a thing as being too contented. "

Richling began to hum, with a playful manner:--

 "'And she's all the world to me. '

Is that being too"--

"Stop!" said Mary. "That's it. " She laid her hand upon his shoulder. "You've said it. That's what I ought not to be!"

"Why, Mary, what on earth"-- His face flamed up "John, I'm willing tobe _more_ than all the rest of the world to you. I always must bethat. I'm going to be that forever. And you"--she kissed himpassionately--"you're all the world to me! But I've no right to be _all_the world to _you_. And you mustn't allow it. It's making it too small!"

"Mary, what are you saying?"

"Don't, John. Don't speak that way. I'm not saying anything. I'm onlytrying to say something, I don't know what. "

"Neither do I, " was the mock-rueful answer. 

"I only know, " replied Mary, the vision of Dr. Sevier's carriagepassing before her abstracted eyes, and of the Doctor's pale face bowingausterely within it, "that if you don't take any part or interest in theoutside world it'll take none in you; do you think it will?"

"And who cares if it doesn't?" cried John, clasping her to his bosom. 

"I do, " she replied. "Yes, I do. I've no right to steal you from therest of the world, or from the place in it that you ought to fill. John"--

"That's my name. "

"Why can't I do something to help you?"

John lifted his head unnecessarily. 

"No!"

"Well, then, let's think of something we can do, without just waitingfor the wind to blow us along, --I mean, " she added appeasingly, "I meanwithout waiting to be employed by others. "

"Oh, yes; but that takes capital!"

"Yes, I know; but why don't you think up something, --some new enterpriseor something, --and get somebody with capital to go in with you?"

He shook his head. 

"You're out of your depth. And that wouldn't make so much difference, but you're out of mine. It isn't enough to think of something; you mustknow how to do it. And what do I know how to do? Nothing! Nothing that'sworth doing!"

"I know one thing you could do. "

"What's that?"

"You could be a professor in a college. "

John smiled bitterly. 

"Without antecedents?" he asked. 

Their eyes met; hers dropped, and both voices were silent. Mary drew asoft sigh. She thought their talk had been unprofitable. But it had not. John laid hold of work from that day on in a better and wiser spirit. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

THE BOUGH BREAKS. 

By some trivial chance, she hardly knew what, Mary found herself one dayconversing at her own door with the woman whom she and her husband hadonce smiled at for walking the moonlit street with her hand in willingand undisguised captivity. She was a large and strong, but extremelyneat, well-spoken, and good-looking Irish woman, who might have seemedat ease but for a faintly betrayed ambition. 

She praised with rather ornate English the good appearance andconvenient smallness of Mary's house; said her own was the same size. That person with whom she sometimes passed "of a Sundeh"--yes, andmoonlight evenings--that was her husband. He was "ferst ingineeur" on asteam-boat. There was a little, just discernible waggle in her head asshe stated things. It gave her decided character. 

"Ah! engineer, " said Mary. 

"_Ferst_ ingineeur, " repeated the woman; "you know there bees ferstingineeurs, an' secon' ingineeurs, an' therd ingineeurs. Yes. " Sheunconsciously fanned herself with a dust-pan that she had just boughtfrom a tin peddler. 

She lived only some two or three hundred yards away, around the corner, in a tidy little cottage snuggled in among larger houses in Coliseumstreet. She had had children, but she had lost them; and Mary'ssympathy when she told her of them--the girl and two boys--won thewoman as much as the little lady's pretty manners had dazed her. It wasnot long before she began to drop in upon Mary in the hour of twilight, and sit through it without speaking often, or making herself especiallyinteresting in any way, but finding it pleasant, notwithstanding. 

"John, " said Mary, --her husband had come in unexpectedly, --"ourneighbor, Mrs. Riley. "

John's bow was rather formal, and Mrs. Riley soon rose and saidgood-evening. 

"John, " said the wife again, laying her hands on his shoulders as shetiptoed to kiss him, "what troubles you?" Then she attempted a rallyingmanner: "Don't my friends suit you?"

He hesitated only an instant, and said:--

"Oh, yes, that's all right!"

"Well, then, I don't see why you look so. "

"I've finished the task I was to do. "

"What! you haven't"--

"I'm out of employment. "

They went and sat down on the little hair-cloth sofa that Mrs. Riley hadjust left. 

"I thought they said they would have other work for you. "

"They said they might have; but it seems they haven't. "

"And it's just in the opening of summer, too, " said Mary; "why, whatright"--

"Oh!"--a despairing gesture and averted gaze--"they've a perfect rightif they think best. I asked them that myself at first--not too politely, either; but I soon saw I was wrong. "

They sat without speaking until it had grown quite dark. Then John said, with a long breath, as he rose:--

"It passes my comprehension. "

"What passes it?" asked Mary, detaining him by one hand. 

"The reason why we are so pursued by misfortunes. "

"But, John, " she said, still holding him, "_is_ it misfortune? When Iknow so well that you deserve to succeed, I think maybe it's goodfortune in disguise, after all. Don't you think it's possible? Youremember how it was last time, when A. , B. , & Co. Failed. Maybe the bestof all is to come now!" She beamed with courage. "Why, John, it seems tome I'd just go in the very best of spirits, the first thing to-morrow, and tell Dr. Sevier you are looking for work. Don't you think itmight"--

"I've been there. "

"Have you? What did he say?"

"He wasn't in. "

 * * *

There was another neighbor, with whom John and Mary did not getacquainted. Not that it was more his fault than theirs; it may have beenless. Unfortunately for the Richlings there was in their dwelling notoddling, self-appointed child commissioner to find his way in unwatchedmoments to the play-ground of some other toddler, and so plant the goodseed of neighbor acquaintanceship. 

This neighbor passed four times a day. A man of fortune, aged a halesixty or so, who came and stood on the corner, and sometimes even resteda foot on Mary's door-step, waiting for the Prytania omnibus, and who, on his returns, got down from the omnibus step a little gingerly, wentby Mary's house, and presently shut himself inside a very ornamentaliron gate, a short way up St. Mary street. A child would have made himacquainted. Even as it was, they did not escape his silent notice. Itwas pleasant for him, from whose life the early dew had been dried awayby a well-risen sun, to recall its former freshness by glimpses of thispair of young beginners. It was like having a bird's nest under hiswindow. 

John, stepping backward from his door one day, saying a last word to hiswife, who stood on the threshold, pushed against this neighbor as he wasmoving with somewhat cumbersome haste to catch the stage, turnedquickly, and raised his hat. 

"Pardon!"

The other uncovered his bald head and circlet of white, silken locks, and hurried on to the conveyance. 

"President of one of the banks down-town, " whispered John. 

That is the nearest they ever came to being acquainted. And even thisaccident might not have occurred had not the man of snowy locks beenglancing at Mary as he passed instead of at his omnibus. 

As he sat at home that evening he remarked:--

"Very pretty little woman that, my dear, that lives in the little houseat the corner; who is she?"

The lady responded, without lifting her eyes from the newspaper in whichshe was interested; she did not know. The husband mused and twirled hispenknife between a finger and thumb. 

"They seem to be starting at the bottom, " he observed. 

"Yes?"

"Yes; much the same as we did. "

"I haven't noticed them particularly. "

"They're worth noticing, " said the banker. 

He threw one fat knee over the other, and laid his head on the back ofhis easy-chair. 

The lady's eyes were still on her paper, but she asked:--

"Would you like me to go and see them?"

"No, no--unless you wish. "

She dropped the paper into her lap with a smile and a sigh. 

"Don't propose it. I have so much going to do"-- She paused, removed herglasses, and fell to straightening the fringe of the lamp-mat. "Ofcourse, if you think they're in need of a friend; but from yourdescription"--

"No, " he answered, quickly, "not at all. They've friends, no doubt. Everything about them has a neat, happy look. That's what attracted mynotice. They've got friends, you may depend. " He ceased, took up apamphlet, and adjusted his glasses. "I think I saw a sofa going in thereto-day as I came to dinner. A little expansion, I suppose. "

"It was going out, " said the only son, looking up from a story-book. 

But the banker was reading. He heard nothing, and the word was notrepeated. He did not divine that a little becalmed and befogged bark, with only two lovers in her, too proud to cry "Help!" had drifted justyonder upon the rocks, and, spar by spar and plank by plank, wasdropping into the smooth, unmerciful sea. 

Before the sofa went there had gone, little by little, some smallervaluables. 

"You see, " said Mary to her husband, with the bright hurry of a wifebent upon something high-handed, "we both have to have furniture; wemust have it; and I don't have to have jewelry. Don't you see?"

"No, I"--

"Now, John!" There could be but one end to the debate; she haddetermined that. The first piece was a bracelet. "No, I wouldn't pawnit, " she said. "Better sell it outright at once. "

But Richling could not but cling to hope and to the adornments that hadso often clasped her wrists and throat or pinned the folds upon herbosom. Piece by piece he pawned them, always looking out ahead withstrained vision for the improbable, the incredible, to rise to hisrelief. 

"Is _nothing_ going to happen, Mary?"

Yes; nothing happened--except in the pawn-shop. 

So, all the sooner, the sofa had to go. 

"It's no use talking about borrowing, " they both said. Then the bureauwent. Then the table. Then, one by one, the chairs. Very slyly it wasall done, too. Neighbors mustn't know. "Who lives there?" is a questionnot asked concerning houses as small as theirs; and a young man, in awell-fitting suit of only too heavy goods, removing his winter hat towipe the standing drops from his forehead; and a little blush-rosewoman at his side, in a mist of cool muslin and the cunningest ofmillinery, --these, who always paused a moment, with a lost look, inthe vestibule of the sepulchral-looking little church on the corner ofPrytania and Josephine streets, till the sexton ushered them in, and whoas often contrived, with no end of ingenuity, despite the little woman'sfresh beauty, to get away after service unaccosted by the elders, --whocould imagine that _these_ were from so deep a nook in poverty's vale?

There was one person who guessed it: Mrs. Riley, who was not asked towalk in any more when she called at the twilight hour. She partly sawand partly guessed the truth, and offered what each one of the pair hadbeen secretly hoping somebody, anybody, would offer--a loan. But whenit actually confronted them it was sweetly declined. 

"Wasn't it kind?" said Mary; and John said emphatically, "Yes. " Verysoon it was their turn to be kind to Mrs. Riley. They attended herhusband's funeral. He had been killed by an explosion. Mrs. Riley beatupon the bier with her fists, and wailed in a far-reaching voice:--

"O Mike, Mike! Me jew'l, me jew'l! Why didn't ye wait to see the babethat's unborn?"

And Mary wept. And when she and John reëntered their denuded house shefell upon his neck with fresh tears, and kissed him again and again, andcould utter no word, but knew he understood. Poverty was so much betterthan sorrow! She held him fast, and he her, while he tenderly hushedher, lest a grief, the very opposite of Mrs. Riley's, should overtakeher. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

HARD SPEECHES AND HIGH TEMPER. 

Dr. Sevier found occasion, one morning, to speak at some length, andvery harshly, to his book-keeper. He had hardly ceased when JohnRichling came briskly in. 

"Doctor, " he said, with great buoyancy, "how do you do?"

The physician slightly frowned. 

"Good-morning, Mr. Richling. "

Richling was tamed in an instant; but, to avoid too great a contrastof manner, he retained a semblance of sprightliness, as he said:--

"This is the first time I have had this pleasure since you were lastat our house, Doctor. "

"Did you not see me one evening, some time ago, in the omnibus?" askedDr. Sevier. 

"Why, no, " replied the other, with returning pleasure; "was I in thesame omnibus?"

"You were on the sidewalk. "

"No-o, " said Richling, pondering. "I've seen you in your carriageseveral times, but you"--

"I didn't see you. "

Richling was stung. The conversation failed. He recommenced it in a tonepitched intentionally too low for the alert ear of Narcisse. 

"Doctor, I've simply called to say to you that I'm out of work andlooking for employment again. "

"Um--hum, " said the Doctor, with a cold fulness of voice that hurtRichling afresh. "You'll find it hard to get anything this time ofyear, " he continued, with no attempt at undertone; "it's very hard foranybody to get anything these days, even when well recommended. "

Richling smiled an instant. The Doctor did not, but turned partly awayto his desk, and added, as if the smile had displeased him:--

"Well, maybe you'll not find it so. "

Richling turned fiery red. 

"Whether I do or not, " he said, rising, "my affairs sha'n't troubleanybody. Good-morning!"

He started out. 

"How's Mrs. Richling?" asked the Doctor. 

"She's well, " responded Richling, putting on his hat and disappearing inthe corridor. Each footstep could be heard as he went down the stairs. 

"He's a fool!" muttered the physician. 

He looked up angrily, for Narcisse stood before him. 

"Well, Doctah, " said the Creole, hurriedly arranging his coat-collar, and drawing his handkerchief, "I'm goin' ad the poss-office. "

"See here, sir!" exclaimed the Doctor, bringing his fist down upon thearm of his chair, "every time you've gone out of this office for thelast six months you've told me you were going to the post-office; nowdon't you ever tell me that again!"

The young man bowed with injured dignity and responded:--

"All a-ight, seh. "

He overtook Richling just outside the street entrance. Richling hadhalted there, bereft of intention, almost of outward sense, andchoking with bitterness. It seemed to him as if in an instant all hismisfortunes, disappointments, and humiliations, that never before hadseemed so many or so great, had been gathered up into the knowledge ofthat hard man upstairs, and, with one unmerciful downward wrench, hadreceived his seal of approval. Indignation, wrath, self-hatred, dismay, in undefined confusion, usurped the faculties of sight and hearing andmotion. 

"Mistoo Itchlin, " said Narcisse, "I 'ope you fine you'seff O. K. , seh, ifyou'll egscuse the slang expwession. "

Richling started to move away, but checked himself. 

"I'm well, sir, thank you, sir; yes, sir, I'm very well. "

"I billieve you, seh. You ah lookin' well. "

Narcisse thrust his hands into his pockets, and turned upon the outersides of his feet, the embodiment of sweet temper. Richling found him awonderful relief at the moment. He quit gnawing his lip and winking intovacancy, and felt a malicious good-humor run into all his veins. 

"I dunno 'ow 'tis, Mistoo Itchlin, " said Narcisse, "but I muz tell youthe tooth; you always 'ave to me the appe'ance ligue the chile ofp'ospe'ity. "

"Eh?" said Richling, hollowing his hand at his ear, --"child of"--

"P'ospe'ity?"

"Yes--yes, " replied the deaf man vaguely, "I--have a relative of thatname. "

"Oh!" exclaimed the Creole, "thass good faw luck! Mistoo Itchlin, look'like you a lil mo' hawd to yeh--but egscuse me. I s'pose you muz beadvancing in business, Mistoo Itchlin. I say I s'pose you muz be gittin'along!"

"I? Yes; yes, I must. "

He started. 

"I'm 'appy to yeh it!" said Narcisse. 

His innocent kindness was a rebuke. Richling began to offer a cordialparting salutation, but Narcisse said:--

"You goin' that way? Well, I kin go that way. "

They went. 

"I was goin' ad the poss-office, but"--he waved his hand and curled hislip. "Mistoo Itchlin, in fact, if you yeh of something suitable to me Iwould like to yeh it. I am not satisfied with that pless yondeh withDoctah Seveeah. I was compel this mawnin', biffo you came in, to 'epoove'im faw 'is 'oodness. He called me a jackass, in fact. I woon allowthat. I 'ad to 'epoove 'im. 'Doctah Seveeah, ' says I, 'don't you call mea jackass ag'in!' An' 'e din call it me ag'in. No, seh. But 'e din liketo 'ush up. Thass the rizz'n 'e was a lil miscutteous to you. Me, I amalways polite. As they say, 'A nod is juz as good as a kick f'om a blinehoss. ' You are fon' of maxim, Mistoo Itchlin? Me, I'm ve'y fon' of them. But they's got one maxim what you may 'ave 'eard--I do not fine thatmaxim always come t'ue. 'Ave you evva yeah that maxim, 'A fool fawluck'? That don't always come t'ue. I 'ave discove'd that. "

"No, " responded Richling, with a parting smile, "that doesn't alwayscome true. "

Dr. Sevier denounced the world at large, and the American nation inparticular, for two days. Within himself, for twenty-four hours, hegrumly blamed Richling for their rupture; then for twenty-four hoursreproached himself, and, on the morning of the third day knocked at thedoor, corner of St. Mary and Prytania. 

No one answered. He knocked again. A woman in bare feet showed herselfat the corresponding door-way in the farther half of the house. 

"Nobody don't live there no more, sir, " she said. 

"Where have they gone?"

"Well, reely, I couldn't tell you, sir. Because, reely, I don't knownothing about it. I haint but jest lately moved in here myself, and Idon't know nothing about nobody around here scarcely at all. "

The Doctor shut himself again in his carriage and let himself be whiskedaway, in great vacuity of mind. 

"They can't blame anybody but themselves, " was, by-and-by, his rallyingthought. "Still"--he said to himself after another vacant interval, andsaid no more. The thought that whether _they_ could blame others or notdid not cover all the ground, rested heavily on him. 

CHAPTER XV. 

THE CRADLE FALLS. 

In the rear of the great commercial centre of New Orleans, on that partof Common street where it suddenly widens out, broad, unpaved, anddusty, rises the huge dull-brown structure of brick, famed, well-nighas far as the city is known, as the Charity Hospital. 

Twenty-five years ago, when the emigrant ships used to unload theirswarms of homeless and friendless strangers into the streets of NewOrleans to fall a prey to yellow-fever or cholera, that solemn pilesheltered thousands on thousands of desolate and plague-stricken Irishand Germans, receiving them unquestioned, until at times the very floorswere covered with the sick and dying, and the sawing and hammering inthe coffin-shop across the inner court ceased not day or night. Sombremonument at once of charity and sin! For, while its comfort and succorcost the houseless wanderer nothing, it lived and grew, and lives andgrows still, upon the licensed vices of the people, --drinking, harlotry, and gambling. 

The Charity Hospital of St. Charles--such is its true name--is, however, no mere plague-house. Whether it ought to be, let doctors decide. Howgood or necessary such modern innovations as "ridge ventilation, ""movable bases, " the "pavilion plan, " "trained nurses, " etc. , may be, let the Auxiliary Sanitary Association say. There it stands as of old, innocent of all sins that may be involved in any of these changes, rising story over story, up and up: here a ward for poisonous fevers, and there a ward for acute surgical cases; here a story full of simpleailments, and there a ward specially set aside for women. 

In 1857 this last was Dr. Sevier's ward. Here, at his stated hour onesummer morning in that year, he tarried a moment, yonder by that window, just where you enter the ward and before you come to the beds. He hadfallen into discourse with some of the more inquiring minds among thetrain of students that accompanied him, and waited there to finish andcool down to a physician's proper temperature. The question was publicsanitation. 

He was telling a tall Arkansan, with high-combed hair, self-consciousgloves, and very broad, clean-shaven lower jaw, how the peculiarformation of delta lands, by which they drain away from the largerwatercourses, instead of into them, had made the swamp there in the rearof the town, for more than a century, "the common dumping-ground andcesspool of the city, sir!"

Some of the students nodded convincedly to the speaker; some lookedaskance at the Arkansan, who put one forearm meditatively under hiscoat-tail; some looked through the window over the regions alluded to, and some only changed their pose and looked around for a mirror. 

The Doctor spoke on. Several of his hearers were really interested inthe then unusual subject, and listened intelligently as he pointedacross the low plain at hundreds of acres of land that were nothing buta morass, partly filled in with the foulest refuse of a semi-tropicalcity, and beyond it where still lay the swamp, half cleared of itsforest and festering in the sun--"every drop of its waters, and everyinch of its mire, " said the Doctor, "saturated with the poisonousdrainage of the town!"

"I happen, " interjected a young city student; but the others bent theirear to the Doctor, who continued:--

"Why, sir, were these regions compactly built on, like similar areas incities confined to narrow sites, the mortality, with the climate wehave, would be frightful. "

"I happen to know, " essayed the city student; but the Arkansan had madean interrogatory answer to the Doctor, that led him to add:--

"Why, yes; you see the houses here on these lands are little, flimsy, single ground-story affairs, loosely thrown together, and freely exposedto sun and air. "

"I hap--, " said the city student. 

"And yet, " exclaimed the Doctor, "Malaria is king!"

He paused an instant for his hearers to take in the figure. 

"Doctor, I happen to"--

Some one's fist from behind caused the speaker to turn angrily, and theDoctor resumed:--

"Go into any of those streets off yonder, --Trémé, Prieur, Marais. Why, there are often ponds under the houses! The floors of bedrooms arewithin a foot or two of these ponds! The bricks of the surroundingpavements are often covered with a fine, dark moss! Water seeps upthrough the sidewalks! That's his realm, sir! Here and there among theresidents--every here and there--you'll see his sallow, quaking subjectsdragging about their work or into and out of their beds, until a fearof a fatal ending drives them in here. Congestion? Yes, sometimescongestion pulls them under suddenly, and they're gone before they knowit. Sometimes their vitality wanes slowly, until Malaria beckons inConsumption. "

"Why, Doctor, " said the city student, ruffling with pride of his town, "there are plenty of cities as bad as this. I happen to know, forinstance"--

Dr. Sevier turned away in quiet contempt. 

"It will not improve our town to dirty others, or to clean them, either. "

He moved down the ward, while two or three members among the movingtrain, who never happened to know anything, nudged each other joyfully. 

The group stretched out and came along, the Doctor first and theyoung men after, some of one sort, some of another, --the dull, thefrivolous, the earnest, the kind, the cold, --following slowly, pausing, questioning, discoursing, advancing, moving from each clean, slender bedto the next, on this side and on that, down and up the long sandedaisles, among the poor, sick women. 

Among these, too, there was variety. Some were stupid and ungracious, hardened and dulled with long penury as some in this world are hardenedand dulled with long riches. Some were as fat as beggars; some were oldand shrivelled; some were shrivelled and young; some were bold; somewere frightened; and here and there was one almost fair. 

Down at the far end of one aisle was a bed whose occupant lay watchingthe distant, slowly approaching group with eyes of unspeakable dread. There was not a word or motion, only the steadfast gaze. Gradually thethrong drew near. The faces of the students could be distinguished. This one was coarse; that one was gentle; another was sleepy; anothertrivial and silly; another heavy and sour; another tender and gracious. Presently the tones of the Doctor's voice could be heard, soft, clear, and without that trumpet quality that it had beyond the sick-room. Howslowly, yet how surely, they came! The patient's eyes turned away towardthe ceiling; they could not bear the slowness of the encounter. Theyclosed; the lips moved in prayer. The group came to the bed that wasonly the fourth away; then to the third; then to the second. Therethey pause some minutes. Now the Doctor approaches the very next bed. Suddenly he notices this patient. She is a small woman, young, fair tosee, and, with closed eyes and motionless form, is suffering an agony ofconsternation. One startled look, a suppressed exclamation, two stepsforward, --the patient's eyes slowly open. Ah, me! It is Mary Richling. 

"Good-morning, madam, " said the physician, with a cold and distant bow;and to the students, "We'll pass right along to the other side, " andthey moved into the next aisle. 

"I am a little pressed for time this morning, " he presently remarked, asthe students showed some unwillingness to be hurried. As soon as hecould he parted with them and returned to the ward alone. 

As he moved again down among the sick, straight along this time, turningneither to right nor left, one of the Sisters of Charity--the hospitaland its so-called nurses are under their oversight--touched his arm. Hestopped impatiently. 

"Well, Sister"--(bowing his ear). 

"I--I--the--the"--His frown had scared away her power of speech. 

"Well, what is it, Sister?"

"The--the last patient down on this side"--

He was further displeased. "_I'll_ attend to the patients, Sister, " hesaid; and then, more kindly, "I'm going there now. No, you stay here, ifyou please. " And he left her behind. 

He came and stood by the bed. The patient gazed on him. 

"Mrs. Richling, " he softly began, and had to cease. 

She did not speak or move; she tried to smile, but her eyes filled, herlips quivered. 

"My dear madam, " exclaimed the physician, in a low voice, "what broughtyou here?"

The answer was inarticulate, but he saw it on the moving lips. 

"Want, " said Mary. 

"But your husband?" He stooped to catch the husky answer. 

"Home. "

"Home?" He could not understand. "Not gone to--back--up the river?"

She slowly shook her head: "No, home. In Prieur street. "

Still her words were riddles. He could not see how she had come to this. He stood silent, not knowing how to utter his thought. At length heopened his lips to speak, hesitated an instant, and then asked:--

"Mrs. Richling, tell me plainly, has your husband gone wrong?"

Her eyes looked up a moment, upon him, big and staring, and suddenly shespoke:--

"O Doctor! My husband go wrong? John go wrong?" The eyelids closed down, the head rocked slowly from side to side on the flat hospital pillow, and the first two tears he had ever seen her shed welled from the longlashes and slipped down her cheeks. 

"My poor child!" said the Doctor, taking her hand in his. "No, no! Godforgive me! He hasn't gone wrong; he's not going wrong. You'll tell meall about it when you're stronger. "

The Doctor had her removed to one of the private rooms of the pay-ward, and charged the Sisters to take special care of her. "Above all things, "he murmured, with a beetling frown, "tell that thick-headed nurse not tolet her know that this is at anybody's expense. Ah, yes; and when herhusband comes, tell him to see me at my office as soon as he possiblycan. "

As he was leaving the hospital gate he had an afterthought. "I mighthave left a note. " He paused, with his foot on the carriage-step. "Isuppose they'll tell him, "--and so he got in and drove off, looking athis watch. 

On his second visit, although he came in with a quietly inspiringmanner, he had also, secretly, the feeling of a culprit. But, midway ofthe room, when the young head on the pillow turned its face toward him, his heart rose. For the patient smiled. As he drew nearer she slid outher feeble hand. "I'm glad I came here, " she murmured. 

"Yes, " he replied; "this room is much better than the open ward. "

"I didn't mean this room, " she said. "I meant the whole hospital. "

"The whole hospital!" He raised his eyebrows, as to a child. 

"Ah! Doctor, " she responded, her eyes kindling, though moist. 

"What, my child?"

She smiled upward to his bent face. 

"The poor--mustn't be ashamed of the poor, must they?"

The Doctor only stroked her brow, and presently turned and addressed hisprofessional inquiries to the nurse. He went away. Just outside the doorhe asked the nurse:--

"Hasn't her husband been here?"

"Yes, " was the reply, "but she was asleep, and he only stood there atthe door and looked in a bit. He trembled, " the unintelligent womanadded, for the Doctor seemed waiting to hear more, --"he trembled allover; and that's all he did, excepting his saying her name over tohimself like, over and over, and wiping of his eyes. "

"And nobody told him anything?"

"Oh, not a word, sir!" came the eager answer. 

"You didn't tell him to come and see me?"

The woman gave a start, looked dismayed, and began:--

"N-no, sir; you didn't tell"--

"Um--hum, " growled the Doctor. He took out a card and wrote on it. "Nowsee if you can remember to give him that. "

CHAPTER XVI. 

MANY WATERS. 

As the day faded away it began to rain. The next morning the water wascoming down in torrents. Richling, looking out from a door in Prieurstreet, found scant room for one foot on the inner edge of the sidewalk;all the rest was under water. By noon the sidewalks were completelycovered in miles of streets. By two in the afternoon the flood wascoming into many of the houses. By three it was up at the door-sill onwhich he stood. There it stopped. 

He could do nothing but stand and look. Skiffs, canoes, hastilyimprovised rafts, were moving in every direction, carrying the unsightlychattels of the poor out of their overflowed cottages to higher ground. Barrels, boxes, planks, hen-coops, bridge lumber, piles of straw thatwaltzed solemnly as they went, cord-wood, old shingles, door-steps, floated here and there in melancholy confusion; and down upon all stilldrizzled the slackening rain. At length it ceased. 

Richling still stood in the door-way, the picture of mute helplessness. Yes, there was one other thing he could do; he could laugh. It wouldhave been hard to avoid it sometimes, there were such ludicroussights, --such slips and sprawls into the water; so there he stood inthat peculiar isolation that deaf people content themselves with, nowlooking the picture of anxious waiting, now indulging a low, deaf man'schuckle when something made the rowdies and slatterns of the streetroar. 

Presently he noticed, at a distance up the way, a young man in a canoe, passing, much to their good-natured chagrin, a party of three in askiff, who had engaged him in a trial of speed. From both boats a showerof hilarious French was issuing. At the nearest corner the skiff partyturned into another street and disappeared, throwing their lingualfireworks to the last. The canoe came straight on with the speed of afish. Its dexterous occupant was no other than Narcisse. 

There was a grace in his movement that kept Richling's eyes on him, whenhe would rather have withdrawn into the house. Down went the paddlealways on the same side, noiselessly, in front; on darted the canoe;backward stretched the submerged paddle and came out of the wateredgewise at full reach behind, with an almost imperceptible swervingmotion that kept the slender craft true to its course. No rocking; norush of water before or behind; only the one constant glassy ripplegliding on either side as silently as a beam of light. Suddenly, withoutany apparent change of movement in the sinewy wrists, the narrow shellswept around in a quarter circle, and Narcisse sat face to face withRichling. 

Each smiled brightly at the other. The handsome Creole's face was aglowwith the pure delight of existence. 

"Well, Mistoo Itchlin, 'ow you enjoyin' that watah? As fah as myseff amconcerned, 'I am afloat, I am afloat on the fee-us 'olling tide. ' Idon't think you fine that stweet pwetty dusty to-day, Mistoo Itchlin?"

Richling laughed. 

"It don't inflame my eyes to-day, " he said. 

"You muz egscuse my i'ony, Mistoo Itchlin; I can't 'ep that sometime'. It come natu'al to me, in fact. I was on'y speaking i'oniously juz nowin calling allusion to that dust; because, of co'se, theh is no dustto-day, because the g'ound is all covvud with watah, in fact. Somepeople don't understand that figgah of i'ony. "

"I don't understand as much about it myself as I'd like to, " saidRichling. 

"Me, I'm ve'y fon' of it, " responded the Creole. "I was making seve'ali'onies ad those fwen' of mine juz now. We was 'unning a 'ace. An' thassanotheh thing I am fon' of. I would 'ather 'un a 'ace than to wuck faw alivin'. Ha! ha! ha! I should thing so! Anybody would, in fact. But thassthe way with me--always making some i'onies. " He stopped with a suddenchange of countenance, and resumed gravely: "Mistoo Itchlin, looks to melike you' lookin' ve'y salad. " He fanned himself with his hat. "I dunno'ow 'tis with you, Mistoo Itchlin, but I fine myseff ve'y oppwessivethiz evening. "

"I don't find you so, " said Richling, smiling broadly. 

And he did not. The young Creole's burning face and resplendent wit werea sunset glow in the darkness of this day of overpowering adversity. Hispresence even supplied, for a moment, what seemed a gleam of hope. Whywasn't there here an opportunity to visit the hospital? He need not tellNarcisse the object of his visit. 

"Do you think, " asked Richling, persuasively, crouching down upon one ofhis heels, "that I could sit in that thing without turning it over?"

"In that pee-ogue?" Narcisse smiled the smile of the proficient as hewaved his paddle across the canoe. "Mistoo Itchlin, "--the smile passedoff, --"I dunno if you'll billiv me, but at the same time I muz tell youthe tooth?"--

He paused inquiringly. 

"Certainly, " said Richling, with evident disappointment. 

"Well, it's juz a poss'bil'ty that you'll wefwain fum spillin' outfum yeh till the negs cawneh. Thass the manneh of those who ah notacquainted with the pee-ogue. 'Lost to sight, to memo'y deah'--if you'llegscuse the maxim. Thass Chawles Dickens mague use of that egspwession. "

Richling answered with a gay shake of the head. "I'll keep out of it. "If Narcisse detected his mortified chagrin, he did not seem to. It washard; the day's last hope was blown out like a candle in the wind. Richling dared not risk the wetting of his suit of clothes; they werehis sole letter of recommendation and capital in trade. 

"Well, _au 'evoi'_, Mistoo Itchlin. " He turned and moved off--dip, glide, and away. 

 * * *

Dr. Sevier stamped his wet feet on the pavement of the hospital porch. It was afternoon of the day following that of the rain. The water stillcovering the streets about the hospital had not prevented his carriagefrom splashing through it on his double daily round. A narrow andunsteady plank spanned the immersed sidewalk. Three times, going andcoming, he had crossed it safely, and this fourth time he had made halfthe distance well enough; but, hearing distant cheers and laughter, helooked up street; when--splatter!--and the cheers were redoubled. 

"Pretty thing to laugh at!" he muttered. Two or three bystanders, leaning on their umbrellas in the lodge at the gate and in the porch, where he stood stamping, turned their backs and smoothed their mouths. 

"Hah!" said the tall Doctor, stamping harder. Stamp!--stamp! He shookhis leg. --"Bah!" He stamped the other long, slender, wet foot and lookeddown at it, turning one side and then the other. --"F-fah!"--The firstone again. --"Pshaw!"--The other. --Stamp!--stamp!--"_Right_--_into_it!--up to my _ankles!_" He looked around with a slight scowl at oneman, who seemed taken with a sudden softening of the spine and knees, and who turned his back quickly and fell against another, who, also withhis back turned, was leaning tremulously against a pillar. 

But the object of mirth did not tarry. He went as he was to Mary's room, and found her much better--as, indeed, he had done at every visit. Hesat by her bed and listened to her story. 

"Why, Doctor, you see, we did nicely for a while. John went on gettingthe same kind of work, and pleasing everybody, of course, and all helacked was finding something permanent. Still, we passed through onemonth after another, and we really began to think the sun was comingout, so to speak. "

"Well, I thought so, too, " put in the Doctor. "I thought if it didn'tyou'd let me know. "

"Why, no, Doctor, we couldn't do that; you couldn't be taking care ofwell people. "

"Well, " said the Doctor, dropping that point, "I suppose as the busyseason began to wane that mode of livelihood, of course, disappeared. "

"Yes, "--a little one-sided smile, --"and so did our money. And then, ofcourse, "--she slightly lifted and waved her hand. 

"You had to live, " said Dr. Sevier, sincerely. 

She smiled again, with abstracted eyes. "We thought we'd like to, " shesaid. "I didn't mind the loss of the things so much, --except the littletable we ate from. You remember that little round table, don't you?"

The visitor had not the heart to say no. He nodded. 

"When that went there was but one thing left that could go. "

"Not your bed?"

"The bedstead; yes. "

"You didn't sell your bed, Mrs. Richling?"

The tears gushed from her eyes. She made a sign of assent. 

"But then, " she resumed, "we made an excellent arrangement with a goodwoman who had just lost her husband, and wanted to live cheaply, too. "

"What amuses you, madam?"

"Nothing great. But I wish you knew her. She's funny. Well, so we moveddown-town again. Didn't cost much to move. "

She would smile a little in spite of him. 

"And then?" said he, stirring impatiently and leaning forward. "Whatthen?"

"Why, then I worked a little harder than I thought, --pulling trunksaround and so on, --and I had this third attack. "

The Doctor straightened himself up, folded his arms, and muttered:--

"Oh!--oh! _Why_ wasn't I instantly sent for?"

The tears were in her eyes again, but--

"Doctor, " she answered, with her odd little argumentative smile, "howcould we? We had nothing to pay with. It wouldn't have been just. "

"Just!" exclaimed the physician, angrily. 

"Doctor, " said the invalid, and looked at him. 

"Oh--all right!"

She made no answer but to look at him still more pleadingly. 

"Wouldn't it have been just as fair to let me be generous, madam?" Hisfaint smile was bitter. "For once? Simply for once?"

"We couldn't make that proposition, could we, Doctor?"

He was checkmated. 

"Mrs. Richling, " he said suddenly, clasping the back of his chair as ifabout to rise, "tell me, --did you or your husband act this way foranything I've ever said or done?"

"No, Doctor! no, no; never! But"--

"But kindness should seek--not be sought, " said the physician, startingup. 

"No, Doctor, we didn't look on it so. Of course we didn't. If there'sany fault it's all mine. For it was my own proposition to John, that aswe _had_ to seek charity we should just be honest and open about it. Isaid, 'John, as I need the best attention, and as that can be offeredfree only in the hospital, why, to the hospital I ought to go. '"

She lay still, and the Doctor pondered. Presently he said:--

"And Mr. Richling--I suppose he looks for work all the time?"

"From daylight to dark!"

"Well, the water is passing off. He'll be along by and by to see you, nodoubt. Tell him to call, first thing to-morrow morning, at my office. "And with that the Doctor went off in his wet boots, committed a seriesof indiscretions, reached home, and fell ill. 

In the wanderings of fever he talked of the Richlings, and in lucidmoments inquired for them. 

"Yes, yes, " answered the sick Doctor's physician, "they're attended to. Yes, all their wants are supplied. Just dismiss them from your mind. " Inthe eyes of this physician the Doctor's life was invaluable, and thesepatients, or pensioners, an unknown and, most likely, an inconsiderablequantity; two sparrows, as it were, worth a farthing. But the sick manlay thinking. He frowned. 

"I wish they would go home. "

"I have sent them. "

"You have? Home to Milwaukee?"

"Yes. "

"Thank God!"

He soon began to mend. Yet it was weeks before he could leave the house. When one day he reëntered the hospital, still pale and faint, he wasprompt to express to the Mother-Superior the comfort he had felt in hissickness to know that his brother physician had sent those Richlings totheir kindred. 

The Sister shook her head. He saw the deception in an instant. As besthis strength would allow, he hurried to the keeper of the rolls. Therewas the truth. Home? Yes, --to Prieur street, --discharged only one weekbefore. He drove quickly to his office. 

"Narcisse, you will find that young Mr. Richling living in Prieurstreet, somewhere between Conti and St. Louis. I don't know the house;you'll have to find it. Tell him I'm in my office again, and to come andsee me. "

Narcisse was no such fool as to say he knew the house. He would get thepraise of finding it quickly. 

"I'll do my mose awduous, seh, " he said, took down his coat, hung up hisjacket, put on his hat, and went straight to the house and knocked. Gotno answer. Knocked again, and a third time; but in vain. Went next doorand inquired of a pretty girl, who fell in love with him at a glance. 

"Yes, but they had moved. She wasn't _jess ezac'ly_ sure where they_had_ moved to, _unless-n_ it was in that little house yondeh betweenSt. Louis and Toulouse; and if they wasn't there she didn't know _where_they was. People ought to leave words where they's movin' at, but theydon't. You're very welcome, " she added, as he expressed his thanks; andhe would have been welcome had he questioned her for an hour. Hisparting bow and smile stuck in her heart a six-months. 

He went to the spot pointed out. As a Creole he was used to seeing veryrespectable people living in very small and plain houses. This one wasnot too plain even for his ideas of Richling, though it was but a littleone-street-door-and-window affair, with an alley on the left runningback into the small yard behind. He knocked. Again no one answered. Helooked down the alley and saw, moving about the yard, a large woman, who, he felt certain, could not be Mrs. Richling. 

Two little short-skirted, bare-legged girls were playing near him. Hespoke to them in French. Did they know where Monsieu' Itchlin lived? Thetwo children repeated the name, looking inquiringly at each other. 

"_Non, miché. _"--"No, sir, they didn't know. "

"_Qui reste ici?_" he asked. "Who lives here?"

"_Ici? Madame qui reste lŕ c'est Mizziz Ri-i-i-ly!_" said one. 

"Yass, " said the other, breaking into English and rubbing a musquito offof her well-tanned shank with the sole of her foot, "tis MizzizRi-i-i-ly what live there. She jess move een. She's got a lillbaby. --Oh! you means dat lady what was in de Chatty Hawspill!"

"No, no! A real, nice _lady_. She nevva saw that Cha'ity Hospi'l. "

The little girls shook their heads. They couldn't imagine a person whohad never seen the Charity Hospital. 

"Was there nobody else who had moved into any of these houses about herelately?" He spoke again in French. They shook their heads. Two boys cameforward and verified the testimony. Narcisse went back with his report:"Moved, --not found. "

"I fine that ve'y d'oll, Doctah Seveeah, " concluded the unaugmented, hanging up his hat; "some peop' always 'ard to fine. I h-even notiz thatsem thing w'en I go to colic' some bill. I dunno 'ow' tis, Doctah, but Iassu' you I kin tell that by a man's physio'nomie. Nobody teach me that. 'Tis my own in_geen_u'ty 'as made me to discoveh that, in fact. "

The Doctor was silent. Presently he drew a piece of paper toward himand, dipping his pen into the ink, began to write:--

"Information wanted of the whereabouts of John Richling"--

"Narcisse, " he called, still writing, "I want you to take anadvertisement to the 'Picayune' office. "

"With the gweatez of pleazheh, seh. " The clerk began his usual shiftingof costume. "Yesseh! I assu' you, Doctah, that is a p'oposition mozeenti'ly to my satizfagtion; faw I am suffe'ing faw a smoke, anddeztitute of a ciga'ette! I am aztonizh' 'ow I did that, to egshauz themunconsciouzly, in fact. " He received the advertisement in an envelope, whipped his shoes a little with his handkerchief, and went out. Onewould think to hear him thundering down the stairs, that it wastwenty-five cents' worth of ice. 

"Hold o--" The Doctor started from his seat, then turned and pacedfeebly up and down. Who, besides Richling, might see that notice? Whatmight be its unexpected results? Who was John Richling? A man with asecret at the best; and a secret, in Dr. Sevier's eyes, was detestable. Might not Richling be a man who had fled from something? "No! no!" TheDoctor spoke aloud. He had promised to think nothing ill of him. Let thepoor children have their silly secret. He spoke again: "They'll find outthe folly of it by and by. " He let the advertisement go; and it went. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

RAPHAEL RISTOFALO. 

Richling had a dollar in his pocket. A man touched him on the shoulder. 

But let us see. On the day that John and Mary had sold their onlybedstead, Mrs. Riley, watching them, had proposed the joint home. Theoffer had been accepted with an eagerness that showed itself in nervouslaughter. Mrs. Riley then took quarters in Prieur street, where John andMary, for a due consideration, were given a single neatly furnished backroom. The bedstead had brought seven dollars. Richling, on the day afterthe removal, was in the commercial quarter, looking, as usual, foremployment. 

The young man whom Dr. Sevier had first seen, in the previous October, moving with a springing step and alert, inquiring glances from number tonumber in Carondelet street was slightly changed. His step was firm, butsomething less elastic, and not quite so hurried. His face was morethoughtful, and his glance wanting in a certain dancing freshness thathad been extremely pleasant. He was walking in Poydras street toward theriver. 

As he came near to a certain man who sat in the entrance of a store withthe freshly whittled corner of a chair between his knees, his look andbow were grave, but amiable, quietly hearty, deferential, and alsoself-respectful--and uncommercial: so palpably uncommercial that thesitter did not rise or even shut his knife. 

He slightly stared. Richling, in a low, private tone, was asking him foremployment. 

"What?" turning his ear up and frowning downward. 

The application was repeated, the first words with a slightly resentfulring, but the rest more quietly. 

The store-keeper stared again, and shook his head slowly. 

"No, sir, " he said, in a barely audible tone. Richling moved on, notstopping at the next place, or the next, or the next; for he felt theman's stare all over his back until he turned the corner and foundhimself in Tchoupitoulas street. Nor did he stop at the first placearound the corner. It smelt of deteriorating potatoes and up-rivercabbages, and there were open barrels of onions set ornamentally aslantat the entrance. He had a fatal conviction that his services would notbe wanted in malodorous places. 

"Now, isn't that a shame?" asked the chair-whittler, as Richling passedout of sight. "Such a gentleman as that, to be beggin' for work fromdoor to door!"

"He's not beggin' f'om do' to do', " said a second, with a Creole accenton his tongue, and a match stuck behind his ear like a pen. "Beside, he's too _much_ of a gennlemun. "

"That's where you and him differs, " said the first. He frowned upon thevictim of his delicate repartee with make-believe defiance. Number Twodrew from an outside coat-pocket a wad of common brown wrapping-paper, tore from it a small, neat parallelogram, dove into an opposite pocketfor some loose smoking-tobacco, laid a pinch of it in the paper, and, with a single dexterous turn of the fingers, thumbs above, the restbeneath, --it looks simple, but 'tis an amazing art, --made a cigarette. Then he took down his match, struck it under his short coat-skirt, lighted his cigarette, drew an inhalation through it that consumed athird of its length, and sat there, with his eyes half-closed, and allthat smoke somewhere inside of him. 

"That young man, " remarked a third, wiping a toothpick on his thigh andputting it in his vest-pocket, as he stepped to the front, "don't knowhow to _look_ fur work. There's one way fur a day-laborer to look furwork, and there's another way fur a gentleman to look fur work, andthere's another way fur a--a--a man with money to look fur somethin'to put his money into. _It's just like fishing!_" He threw both handsoutward and downward, and made way for a porter's truck with a load ofgreen meat. The smoke began to fall from Number Two's nostrils in twoslender blue streams. Number Three continued:--

"You've got to know what kind o' hooks you want, and what kind o' baityou want, and then, after _that_, you've"--

Numbers One and Two did not let him finish. 

"--Got to know how to fish, " they said; "that's so!" The smoke continuedto leak slowly from Number Two's nostrils and teeth, though he had notlifted his cigarette the second time. 

"Yes, you've got to know how to fish, " reaffirmed the third. "If youdon't know how to fish, it's as like as not that nobody can tell youwhat's the matter; an' yet, all the same, you aint goin' to ketch nofish. "

"Well, now, " said the first man, with an unconvinced swing of his chin, "_spunk_ 'll sometimes pull a man through; and you can't say he aintspunky. " Number Three admitted the corollary. Number Two looked up: hischance had come. 

"He'd a w'ipped you faw a dime, " said he to Number One, took acomforting draw from his cigarette, and felt a great peace. 

"I take notice he's a little deaf, " said Number Three, still alluding toRichling. 

"That'd spoil him for me, " said Number One. 

Number Three asked why. 

"Oh, I just wouldn't have him about me. Didn't you ever notice that adeaf man always seems like a sort o' stranger? I can't bear 'em. "

Richling meanwhile moved on. His critics were right. He was not wantingin courage; but no man from the moon could have been more an alien onthose sidewalks. He was naturally diligent, active, quick-witted, andof good, though maybe a little too scholarly address; quick of temper, it is true, and uniting his quickness of temper with a certainbashfulness, --an unlucky combination, since, as a consequence, nobodyhad to get out of its way; but he was generous in fact and in speech, and never held malice a moment. But, besides the heavy odds which hissmall secret seemed to be against him, stopping him from accepting suchvaluable friendships as might otherwise have come to him, and besideshis slight deafness, he was by nature a recluse, or, at least, adreamer. Every day that he set foot on Tchoupitoulas, or Carondelet, orMagazine, or Fulton, or Poydras street he came from a realm of thought, seeking service in an empire of matter. 

There is a street in New Orleans called Triton _Walk_. That is what allthe ways of commerce and finance and daily bread-getting were toRichling. He was a merman--ashore. It was the feeling rather than theknowledge of this that prompted him to this daily, aimless trudgingafter mere employment. He had a proper pride; once in a while a littletoo much; nor did he clearly see his deficiencies; and yet theunrecognized consciousness that he had not the commercial instinct madehim willing--as Number Three would have said--to "cut bait" for anyfisherman who would let him do it. 

He turned without any distinct motive and, retracing his steps to thecorner, passed up across Poydras street. A little way above it he pausedto look at some machinery in motion. He liked machinery, --for itselfrather than for its results. He would have gone in and examined theworkings of this apparatus had it not been for the sign above his head, "No Admittance. " Those words always seemed painted for him. A slightmodification in Richling's character might have made him an inventor. Some other faint difference, and he might have been a writer, ahistorian, an essayist, or even--there is no telling--a well-fed poet. With the question of food, raiment, and shelter permanently settled, he might have become one of those resplendent flash lights that atintervals dart their beams across the dark waters of the world'signorance, hardly from new continents, but from the observatory, thestudy, the laboratory. But he was none of these. There had been a crimecommitted somewhere in his bringing up, and as a result he stood in thethick of life's battle, weaponless. He gazed upon machinery withchildlike wonder; but when he looked around and saw on every handmen, --good fellows who ate in their shirt-sleeves at restaurants, toldbroad jokes, spread their mouths and smote their sides when theylaughed, and whose best wit was to bombard one another with bread-crustsand hide behind the sugar-bowl; men whom he could have taught in everykind of knowledge that they were capable of grasping, except theknowledge of how to get money, --when he saw these men, as it seemed tohim, grow rich daily by simply flipping beans into each other's faces, or slapping each other on the back, the wonder of machinery waseclipsed. Do as they did? He? He could no more reach a conviction as towhat the price of corn would be to-morrow than he could remember whatthe price of sugar was yesterday. 

He called himself an accountant, gulping down his secret pride with anamiable glow that commanded, instantly, an amused esteem. And, to judgeby his evident familiarity with Tonti's beautiful scheme of mercantilerecords, he certainly--those guessed whose books he had extricatedfrom confusion--had handled money and money values in days before hisunexplained coming to New Orleans. Yet a close observer would havenoticed that he grasped these tasks only as problems, treated them intheir mathematical and enigmatical aspect, and solved them without anyappreciation of their concrete values. When they were done he felt lesspersonal interest in them than in the architectural beauty of thestore-front, whose window-shutters he had never helped to close withouta little heart-leap of pleasure. 

But, standing thus, and looking in at the machinery, a man touched himon the shoulder. 

"Good-morning, " said the man. He wore a pleasant air. It seemed to say, "I'm nothing much, but you'll recognize me in a moment; I'll wait. " Hewas short, square, solid, beardless; in years, twenty-five or six. Hisskin was dark, his hair almost black, his eyebrows strong. In his mildblack eyes you could see the whole Mediterranean. His dress was coarse, but clean; his linen soft and badly laundered. But under all the roughgarb and careless, laughing manner was visibly written again and againthe name of the race that once held the world under its feet. 

"You don't remember me?" he added, after a moment. 

"No, " said Richling, pleasantly, but with embarrassment. The man waitedanother moment, and suddenly Richling recalled their earlier meeting. The man, representing a wholesale confectioner in one of the smallercities up the river, had bought some cordials and syrups of the housewhose books Richling had last put in order. 

"Why, yes I do, too!" said Richling. "You left your pocket-book in mycare for two or three days; your own private money, you said. "

"Yes. " The man laughed softly. "Lost that money. Sent it to the boss. Boss died--store seized--everything gone. " His English was wellpronounced, but did not escape a pretty Italian accent, too delicate forthe printer's art. 

"Oh! that was too bad!" Richling laid his hand upon an awning-post andtwined an arm and leg around it as though he were a vine. "I--I forgetyour name. "

"Ristofalo. Raphael Ristofalo. Yours is Richling. Yes, knocked me flat. Not got cent in world. " The Italian's low, mellow laugh claimedRichling's admiration. 

"Why, when did that happen?" he asked. 

"Yes'day, " replied the other, still laughing. 

"And how are you going to provide for the future?" Richling asked, smiling down into the face of the shorter man. The Italian tossed thefuture away with the back of his hand. 

"I got nothin' do with that. " His words were low, but very distinct. 

Thereupon Richling laughed, leaning his cheek against the post. 

"Must provide for the present, " said Raphael Ristofalo. Richling droppedhis eyes in thought. The present! He had never been able to see that itwas the present which must be provided against, until, while he wastraining his guns upon the future, the most primitive wants of thepresent burst upon him right and left like whooping savages. 

"Can you lend me dollar?" asked the Italian. "Give you back dollar an'quarter to-morrow. "

Richling gave a start and let go the post. "Why, Mr. Risto--falo, I--I--, the fact is, I"--he shook his head--"I haven't much money. "

"Dollar will start me, " said the Italian, whose feet had not moved aninch since he touched Richling's shoulder. "Be aw righ' to-morrow. "

"You can't invest one dollar by itself, " said the incredulous Richling. 

"Yes. Return her to-morrow. "

Richling swung his head from side to side as an expression of disrelish. "I haven't been employed for some time. "

"I goin' t'employ myself, " said Ristofalo. 

Richling laughed again. There was a faint betrayal of distress in hisvoice as it fell upon the cunning ear of the Italian; but he laughedtoo, very gently and innocently, and stood in his tracks. 

"I wouldn't like to refuse a dollar to a man who needs it, " saidRichling. He took his hat off and ran his fingers through his hair. "I've seen the time when it was much easier to lend than it is justnow. " He thrust his hand down into his pocket and stood gazing at thesidewalk. 

The Italian glanced at Richling askance, and with one sweep of the eyefrom the softened crown of his hat to the slender, white bursted slit inthe outer side of either well-polished shoe, took in the beauty of hisface and a full understanding of his condition. His hair, somewhat dry, had fallen upon his forehead. His fine, smooth skin was darkened by theexposure of his daily wanderings. His cheek-bones, a trifle high, asserted their place above the softly concave cheeks. His mouth wasclosed and the lips were slightly compressed; the chin small, gracefullyturned, not weak, --not strong. His eyes were abstracted, deep, pensive. His dress told much. The fine plaits of his shirt had sprung apart andbeen neatly sewed together again. His coat was a little faulty in theset of the collar, as if the person who had taken the garment apart andturned the goods had not put it together again with practised skill. Itwas without spot and the buttons were new. The edges of his shirt-cuffshad been trimmed with the scissors. Face and vesture alike revealed tothe sharp eye of the Italian the woe underneath. "He has a wife, "thought Ristofalo. 

Richling looked up with a smile. "How can you be so sure you will make, and not lose?"

"I never fail. " There was not the least shade of boasting in the man'smanner. Richling handed out his dollar. It was given without patronageand taken with simple thanks. 

"Where goin' to meet to-morrow morning?" asked Ristofalo. "Here?"

"Oh! I forgot, " said Richling. "Yes, I suppose so; and then you'll tellme how you invested it, will you?"

"Yes, but you couldn't do it. "

"Why not?"

Raphael Ristofalo laughed. "Oh! fifty reason'. "

CHAPTER XVIII. 

HOW HE DID IT. 

Ristofalo and Richling had hardly separated, when it occurred to thelatter that the Italian had first touched him from behind. Had Ristofalorecognized him with his back turned, or had he seen him earlier andfollowed him? The facts were these: about an hour before the time whenRichling omitted to apply for employment in the ill-smelling store inTchoupitoulas street, Mr. Raphael Ristofalo halted in front of the sameplace, --which appeared small and slovenly among its more pretentiousneighbors, --and stepped just inside the door to where stood a singlebarrel of apples, --a fruit only the earliest varieties of which werebeginning to appear in market. These were very small, round, and smooth, and with a rather wan blush confessed to more than one of the sensesthat they had seen better days. He began to pick them up and throw themdown--one, two, three, four, seven, ten; about half of them wereentirely sound. 

"How many barrel' like this?"

"No got-a no more; dass all, " said the dealer. He was a Sicilian. "Lameduck, " he added. "Oäl de rest gone. "

"How much?" asked Ristofalo, still handling the fruit. 

The Sicilian came to the barrel, looked in, and said, with a gesture ofindifference:--

"'M--doll' an' 'alf. "

Ristofalo offered to take them at a dollar if he might wash and sortthem under the dealer's hydrant, which could be heard running in theback yard. The offer would have been rejected with rude scorn but forone thing: it was spoken in Italian. The man looked at him with pleasedsurprise, and made the concession. The porter of the store, in a redworsted cap, had drawn near. Ristofalo bade him roll the barrel on itschine to the rear and stand it by the hydrant. 

"I will come back pretty soon, " he said, in Italian, and went away. 

By and by he returned, bringing with him two swarthy, heavy-set, littleSicilian lads, each with his inevitable basket and some clean rags. Asmile and gesture to the store-keeper, a word to the boys, and in amoment the barrel was upturned, and the pair were washing, wiping, andsorting the sound and unsound apples at the hydrant. 

Ristofalo stood a moment in the entrance of the store. The question nowwas where to get a dollar. Richling passed, looked in, seemed tohesitate, went on, turned, and passed again, the other way. Ristofalosaw him all the time and recognized him at once, but appeared not toobserve him. 

"He will do, " thought the Italian. "Be back few minute', " he said, glancing behind him. 

"Or-r righ', " said the store-keeper, with a hand-wave of good-naturedconfidence. He recognized Mr. Raphael Ristofalo's species. 

The Italian walked up across Poydras street, saw Richling stop and lookat the machinery, approached, and touched him on the shoulder. 

On parting with him he did not return to the store where he had left theapples. He walked up Tchoupitoulas street about a mile, and where St. Thomas street branches acutely from it, in a squalid district full ofthe poorest Irish, stopped at a dirty fruit-stand and spoke in Spanishto its Catalan proprietor. Half an hour later twenty-five cents hadchanged hands, the Catalan's fruit shelves were bright with smallpyramids--sound side foremost--of Ristofalo's second grade of apples, the Sicilian had Richling's dollar, and the Italian was gone with hisboys and his better grade of fruit. Also, a grocer had sold some sugar, and a druggist a little paper of some harmless confectioner's dye. 

Down behind the French market, in a short, obscure street that runs fromUrsulines to Barracks street, and is named in honor of Albert Gallatin, are some old buildings of three or four stories' height, rented, in JohnRichling's day, to a class of persons who got their livelihood bysub-letting the rooms, and parts of rooms, to the wretchedest poor ofNew Orleans, --organ-grinders, chimney-sweeps, professional beggars, street musicians, lemon-peddlers, rag-pickers, with all the yet dirtierherd that live by hook and crook in the streets or under the wharves; aroom with a bed and stove, a room without, a half-room with or withoutditto, a quarter-room with or without a blanket or quilt, and with onlya chalk-mark on the floor instead of a partition. Into one of these wentMr. Raphael Ristofalo, the two boys, and the apples. Whose assistance orindulgence, if any, he secured in there is not recorded; but when, latein the afternoon, the Italian issued thence--the boys, meanwhile, had been coming and going--an unusual luxury had been offered theroustabouts and idlers of the steam-boat landings, and many hadbought and eaten freely of the very small, round, shiny, sugary, andartificially crimson roasted apples, with neatly whittled white-pinestems to poise them on as they were lifted to the consumer's wateringteeth. When, the next morning Richling laughed at the story, the Italiandrew out two dollars and a half, and began to take from it a dollar. 

"But you have last night's lodging and so forth yet to pay for. "

"No. Made friends with Sicilian luggerman. Slept in his lugger. " Heshowed his brow and cheeks speckled with mosquito-bites. "Ate littlehard-tack and coffee with him this morning. Don't want much. " He offeredthe dollar with a quarter added. Richling declined the bonus. 

"But why not?"

"Oh, I just couldn't do it, " laughed Richling; "that's all. "

"Well, " said the Italian, "lend me that dollar one day more, I returnyou dollar and half in its place to-morrow. "

The lender had to laugh again. "You can't find an odd barrel of damagedapples every day. "

"No. No apples to-day. But there's regiment soldiers at lower landing;whole steam-boat load; going to sail this evenin' to Florida. They'lleat whole barrel hard-boil' eggs. "--And they did. When they sailed, theItalian's pocket was stuffed with small silver. 

Richling received his dollar and fifty cents. As he did so, "I wouldgive, if I had it, a hundred dollars for half your art, " he said, laughing unevenly. He was beaten, surpassed, humbled. Still he said, "Come, don't you want this again? You needn't pay me for the use of it. "

But the Italian refused. He had outgrown his patron. A week afterwardRichling saw him at the Picayune Tier, superintending the unloading of asmall schooner-load of bananas. He had bought the cargo, and wasreselling to small fruiterers. 

"Make fifty dolla' to-day, " said the Italian, marking his tally-boardwith a piece of chalk. 

Richling clapped him joyfully on the shoulder, but turned around withinward distress and hurried away. He had not found work. 

Events followed of which we have already taken knowledge. Mary, we haveseen, fell sick and was taken to the hospital. 

"I shall go mad!" Richling would moan, with his dishevelled browsbetween his hands, and then start to his feet, exclaiming, "I must not!I must not! I must keep my senses!" And so to the commercial regions orto the hospital. 

Dr. Sevier, as we know, left word that Richling should call and see him;but when he called, a servant--very curtly, it seemed to him--said theDoctor was not well and didn't want to see anybody. This was enough fora young man who _hadn't_ his senses. The more he needed a helping handthe more unreasonably shy he became of those who might help him. 

"Will nobody come and find us?" Yet he would not cry "Whoop!" and how, then, was anybody to come?

Mary returned to the house again (ah! what joys there are in the vale oftribulation!), and grew strong, --stronger, she averred, than ever shehad been. 

"And now you'll _not_ be cast down, _will_ you?" she said, sliding intoher husband's lap. She was in an uncommonly playful mood. 

"Not a bit of it, " said John. "Every dog has his day. I'll come to thetop. You'll see. "

"Don't I know that?" she responded, "Look here, now, " she exclaimed, starting to her feet and facing him, "_I'll_ recommend you to anybody. _I've_ got confidence in you!" Richling thought she had never lookedquite so pretty as at that moment. He leaped from his chair with alaughing ejaculation, caught and swung her an instant from her feet, andlanded her again before she could cry out. If, in retort, she smote himso sturdily that she had to retreat backward to rearrange her shakencoil of hair, it need not go down on the record; such things willhappen. The scuffle and suppressed laughter were detected even in Mrs. Riley's room. 

"Ah!" sighed the widow to herself, "wasn't it Kate Riley that used toget the sweet, haird knocks!" Her grief was mellowing. 

Richling went out on the old search, which the advancing summer mademore nearly futile each day than the day before. 

Stop. What sound was that?

"Richling! Richling!"

Richling, walking in a commercial street, turned. A member of the firmthat had last employed him beckoned him to halt. 

"What are you doing now, Richling? Still acting deputy assistant citysurveyor _pro tem. _?"

"Yes. "

"Well, see here! Why haven't you been in the store to see us lately? DidI seem a little preoccupied the last time you called?"

"I"--Richling dropped his eyes with an embarrassed smile--"_I was_afraid I was in the way--or should be. "

"Well and suppose you were? A man that's looking for work must puthimself in the way. But come with me. I think I may be able to give youa lift. "

"How's that?" asked Richling, as they started off abreast. 

"There's a house around the corner here that will give you somework, --temporary anyhow, and may be permanent. "

So Richling was at work again, hidden away from Dr. Sevier betweenjournal and ledger. His employers asked for references. Richling lookeddismayed for a moment, then said, "I'll bring somebody to recommend me, "went away, and came back with Mary. 

"All the recommendation I've got, " said he, with timid elation. Therewas a laugh all round. 

"Well, madam, if you say he's all right, we don't doubt he is!"

CHAPTER XIX. 

ANOTHER PATIENT. 

"Doctah Seveeah, " said Narcisse, suddenly, as he finished sticking withgreat fervor the postage-stamps on some letters the Doctor had written, and having studied with much care the phraseology of what he had to say, and screwed up his courage to the pitch of utterance, "I saw yo' notizon the noozpapeh this mornin'. "

The unresponding Doctor closed his eyes in unutterable weariness of theinnocent young gentleman's prepared speeches. 

"Yesseh. 'Tis a beaucheouz notiz. I fine that w'itten with the gweatezac_cu_'acy of diction, in fact. I made a twanslation of that faw myhant. Thaz a thing I am fon' of, twanslation. I dunno 'ow 'tis, Doctah, "he continued, preparing to go out, --"I dunno 'ow 'tis, but I thing, yougoin' to fine that Mistoo Itchlin ad the en'. I dunno 'ow 'tis. Well, I'm goin' ad the"--

The Doctor looked up fiercely. 

"Bank, " said Narcisse, getting near the door. 

"All right!" grumbled the Doctor, more politely. 

"Yesseh--befo' I go ad the poss-office. "

A great many other persons had seen the advertisement. There were manyamong them who wondered if Mr. John Richling could be such a fool as tofall into that trap. There were others--some of them women, alas!--whowondered how it was that nobody advertised for information concerningthem, and who wished, yes, "wished to God, " that such a one, or such aone, who had had his money-bags locked up long enough, would die, andthen you'd see who'd be advertised for. Some idlers looked in vain intothe city directory to see if Mr. John Richling were mentioned there. But Richling himself did not see the paper. His employers, or somefellow-clerk, might have pointed it out to him, but--we shall see in amoment. 

Time passed. It always does. At length, one morning, as Dr. Sevier layon his office lounge, fatigued after his attentions to callers, and muchenervated by the prolonged summer heat, there entered a small femaleform, closely veiled. He rose to a sitting posture. 

"Good-morning, Doctor, " said a voice, hurriedly, behind the veil. "Doctor, " it continued, choking, --"Doctor"--

"Why, Mrs. Richling!"

He sprang and gave her a chair. She sank into it. 

"Doctor, --O Doctor! John is in the Charity Hospital!"

She buried her face in her handkerchief and sobbed aloud. The Doctor wassilent a moment, and then asked:--

"What's the matter with him?"

"Chills. "

It seemed as though she must break down again, but the Doctor stoppedher savagely. 

"Well, my dear madam, don't cry! Come, now, you're making too much of asmall matter. Why, what are chills? We'll break them in forty-eighthours. He'll have the best of care. You needn't cry! Certainly thisisn't as bad as when you were there. "

She was still, but shook her head. She couldn't agree to that. 

"Doctor, will you attend him?"

"Mine is a female ward. "

"I know; but"--

"Oh--if you wish it--certainly; of course I will. But now, where haveyou moved, Mrs. Richling? I sent"-- He looked up over his desk towardthat of Narcisse. 

The Creole had been neither deaf nor idle. Hospital? Then those childrenin Prieur street had told him right. He softly changed his coat andshoes. As the physician looked over the top of the desk Narcisse'ssilent form, just here at the left, but out of the range of vision, passed through the door and went downstairs with the noiselessness of amoonbeam. 

Mary explained the location and arrangement of her residence. 

"Yes, " she said, "that's the way your clerk must have overlooked us. Welive behind--down the alleyway. "

"Well, at any rate, madam, " said the Doctor, "you are here now, andbefore you go I want to"-- He drew out his pocket-book. 

There was a quick gesture of remonstrance and a look of pleading. 

"No, no, Doctor, please don't! please don't! Give my poor husband onemore chance; don't make me take that. I don't refuse it for pride'ssake!"

"I don't know about that, " he replied; "why do you do it?"

"For his sake, Doctor. I know just as well what he'd say--we've no rightto take it anyhow. We don't know when we could pay it back. " Her headsank. She wiped a tear from her hand. 

"Why, I don't care if you never pay it back!" The Doctor reddenedangrily. 

Mary raised her veil. 

"Doctor, "--a smile played on her lips, --"I want to say one thing. " Shewas a little care-worn and grief-worn; and yet, Narcisse, you shouldhave seen her; you would not have slipped out. 

"Say on, madam, " responded the Doctor. 

"If we have to ask anybody, Doctor, it will be you. John had anothersituation, but lost it by his chills. He'll get another. I'm sure hewill. " A long, broken sigh caught her unawares. Dr. Sevier thrust hispocket-book back into its place, compressing his lips and giving hishead an unpersuaded jerk. And yet, was she not right, according to allhis preaching? He asked himself that. "Why didn't your husband come tosee me, as I requested him to do, Mrs. Richling?"

She explained John's being turned away from the door during the Doctor'sillness. "But anyhow, Doctor, John has always been a little afraid ofyou. "

The Doctor's face did not respond to her smile. 

"Why, you are not, " he said. 

"No. " Her eyes sparkled, but their softer light quickly returned. Shesmiled and said:--

"I will ask a favor of you now, Doctor. "

They had risen, and she stood leaning sidewise against his low desk andlooking up into his face. 

"Can you get me some sewing? John says I may take some. "

The Doctor was about to order two dozen shirts instanter, but commonsense checked him, and he only said:--

"I will. I will find you some. And I shall see your husband within anhour. Good-by. " She reached the door. "God bless you!" he added. 

"What, sir?" she asked, looking back. 

But the Doctor was reading. 

CHAPTER XX. 

ALICE. 

A little medicine skilfully prescribed, the proper nourishment, two orthree days' confinement in bed, and the Doctor said, as he sat on theedge of Richling's couch:--

"No, you'd better stay where you are to-day; but to-morrow, if theweather is good, you may sit up. "

Then Richling, with the unreasonableness of a convalescent, wanted toknow why he couldn't just as well go home. But the Doctor said again, no. 

"Don't be impatient; you'll have to go anyhow before I would prefer tosend you. It would be invaluable to you to pass your entireconvalescence here, and go home only when you are completely recovered. But I can't arrange it very well. The Charity Hospital is for sickpeople. "

"And where is the place for convalescents?"

"There is none, " replied the physician. 

"I shouldn't want to go to it, myself, " said Richling, lollingpleasantly on his pillow; "all I should ask is strength to get home, and I'd be off. "

The Doctor looked another way. 

"The sick are not the wise, " he said, abstractedly. "However, in yourcase, I should let you go to your wife as soon as you safely could. " Atthat he fell into so long a reverie that Richling studied every line ofhis face again and again. 

A very pleasant thought was in the convalescent's mind the while. Thelast three days had made it plain to him that the Doctor was not onlyhis friend, but was willing that Richling should be his. 

At length the physician spoke:--

"Mary is wonderfully like Alice, Richling. "

"Yes?" responded Richling, rather timidly. And the Doctor continued:--

"The same age, the same stature, the same features. Alice was a shadepaler in her style of beauty, just a shade. Her hair was darker; butotherwise her whole effect was a trifle quieter, even, than Mary's. Shewas beautiful, --outside and in. Like Mary, she had a certain richness ofcharacter--but of a different sort. I suppose I would not notice thedifference if they were not so much alike. She didn't stay with melong. "

"Did you lose her--here?" asked Richling, hardly knowing how to breakthe silence that fell, and yet lead the speaker on. 

"No. In Virginia. " The Doctor was quiet a moment, and then resumed:--

"I looked at your wife when she was last in my office, Richling; shehad a little timid, beseeching light in her eyes that is not usual withher--and a moisture, too; and--it seemed to me as though Alice had comeback. For my wife lived by my moods. Her spirits rose or fell just as mywhim, conscious or unconscious, gave out light or took on shadow. " TheDoctor was still again, and Richling only indicated his wish to hearmore by shifting himself on his elbow. 

"Do you remember, Richling, when the girl you had been bowing down toand worshipping, all at once, in a single wedding day, was transformedinto your adorer?"

"Yes, indeed, " responded the convalescent, with beaming face. "Wasn'tit wonderful? I couldn't credit my senses. But how did you--was it thesame"--

"It's the same, Richling, with every man who has really secured awoman's heart with her hand. It was very strange and sweet to me. Alicewould have been a spoiled child if her parents could have spoiled her;and when I was courting her she was the veriest little empress that everwalked over a man. "

"I can hardly imagine, " said Richling, with subdued amusement, lookingat the long, slender form before him. The Doctor smiled very sweetly. 

"Yes. " Then, after another meditative pause: "But from the moment Ibecame her husband she lived in continual trepidation. She so magnifiedme in her timid fancy that she was always looking tremulously to me tosee what should be her feeling. She even couldn't help being afraid ofme. I hate for any one to be afraid of me. "

"Do you, Doctor?" said Richling, with surprise and evidentintrospection. 

"Yes. "

Richling felt his own fear changing to love. 

"When I married, " continued Dr. Sevier, "I had thought Alice was onethat would go with me hand in hand through life, dividing its cares anddoubling its joys, as they say; I guiding her and she guiding me. But ifI had let her, she would have fallen into me as a planet might fall intothe sun. I didn't want to be the sun to her. I didn't want her to shineonly when I shone on her, and be dark when I was dark. No man ought towant such a thing. Yet she made life a delight to me; only she wantedthat development which a better training, or even a harder training, might have given her; that subserving of the emotions to the"--he wavedhis hand--"I can't philosophize about her. We loved one another withour might, and she's in heaven. "

Richling felt an inward start. The Doctor interrupted his intendedspeech. 

"Our short experience together, Richling, is the one great light placein my life; and to me, to-day, sere as I am, the sweet--the sweetestsound--on God's green earth"--the corners of his mouth quivered--"is thename of Alice. Take care of Mary, Richling; she's a priceless treasure. Don't leave the making and sustaining of the home sunshine all to her, any more than you'd like her to leave it all to you. "

"I'll not, Doctor; I'll not. " Richling pressed the Doctor's handfervently; but the Doctor drew it away with a certain energy, and rose, saying:--

"Yes, you can sit up to-morrow. "

The day that Richling went back to his malarious home in Prieur streetDr. Sevier happened to meet him just beyond the hospital gate. Richlingwaved his hand. He looked weak and tremulous. "Homeward bound, " he said, gayly. 

The physician reached forward in his carriage and bade his driver stop. "Well, be careful of yourself; I'm coming to see you in a day or two. "

CHAPTER XXI. 

THE SUN AT MIDNIGHT. 

Dr. Sevier was daily overtasked. His campaigns against the evils of ourdisordered flesh had even kept him from what his fellow-citizens thoughtwas only his share of attention to public affairs. 

"Why, " he cried to a committee that came soliciting his coöperation, "here's one little unprofessional call that I've been trying every dayfor two weeks to make--and ought to have made--and must make; and Ihaven't got a step toward it yet. Oh, no, gentlemen!" He waved theirrequest away. 

He was very tired. The afternoon was growing late. He dismissed hisjaded horse toward home, walked down to Canal street, and took thatyellow Bayou-Road omnibus whose big blue star painted on its corpulentside showed that quadroons, etc. , were allowed a share of itsaccommodation, and went rumbling and tumbling over the cobble-stonesof the French quarter. 

By and by he got out, walked a little way southward in the hot, luminousshade of low-roofed tenement cottages that closed their window-shuttersnoiselessly, in sensitive-plant fashion, at his slow, meditativeapproach, and slightly and as noiselessly reopened them behind him, showing a pair of wary eyes within. Presently he recognized just aheadof him, standing out on the sidewalk, the little house that had beendescribed to him by Mary. 

In a door-way that opened upon two low wooden sidewalk steps stood Mrs. Riley, clad in a crisp black and white calico, a heavy, fat babe poisedeasily in one arm. The Doctor turned directly toward the narrow alley, merely touching his hat to her as he pushed its small green door inward, and disappeared, while she lifted her chin at the silent liberty anddropped her eyelids. 

Dr. Sevier went down the cramped, ill-paved passage very slowly andsoftly. Regarding himself objectively, he would have said the deep shadeof his thoughts was due partly, at least, to his fatigue. But that wouldhardly have accounted for a certain faint glow of indignation that cameinto them. In truth, he began distinctly to resent this state of affairsin the life of John and Mary Richling. An ill-defined anger beat aboutin his brain in search of some tangible shortcoming of theirs upon whichto thrust the blame of their helplessness. "Criminal helplessness, " hecalled it, mutteringly. He tried to define the idea--or the idea triedto define itself--that they had somehow been recreant to their socialcaste, by getting down into the condition and estate of what one maycall the alien poor. Carondelet street had in some way specially vexedhim to-day, and now here was this. It was bad enough, he thought, formen to slip into riches through dark back windows; but here was a braceof youngsters who had glided into poverty, and taken a place to whichthey had no right to stoop. Treachery, --that was the name for it. Andnow he must be expected, --the Doctor quite forgot that nobody had askedhim to do it, --he must be expected to come fishing them out of theirhole, like a rag-picker at a trash barrel. 

--"Bringing me into this wretched alley!" he silently thought. His footslipped on a mossy brick. Oh, no doubt they thought they were punishingsome negligent friend or friends by letting themselves down into thissort of thing. Never mind! He recalled the tender, confiding, friendlyway in which he had talked to John, sitting on the edge of his hospitalbed. He wished, now, he had every word back he had uttered. They mighthide away to the full content of their poverty-pride. Poverty-pride: hehad invented the term; it was the opposite pole to purse-pride--and justas mean, --no, meaner. There! Must he yet slip down? He muttered an angryword. Well, well, this was making himself a little the cheapest he hadever let himself be made. And probably this was what they wanted!Misery's revenge. Umhum! They sit down in sour darkness, eh! and makerelief seek them. It wouldn't be the first time he had caught the poortaking savage comfort in the blush which their poverty was supposed tobring to the cheek of better-kept kinsfolk. True, he didn't know thiswas the case with the Richlings. But wasn't it? Wasn't it? And have theya dog, that will presently hurl himself down this alley at one's legs?He hopes so. He would so like to kick him clean over the twelve-footclose plank fence that crowded his right shoulder. Never mind! His angerbecame solemn. 

The alley opened into a small, narrow yard, paved with ashes from thegas-works. At the bottom of the yard a rough shed spanned its breadth, and a woman was there, busily bending over a row of wash-tubs. 

The Doctor knocked on a door near at hand, then waited a moment, and, getting no response, turned away toward the shed and the deep, wet, burring sound of a wash-board. The woman bending over it did not hearhis footfall. Presently he stopped. She had just straightened up, lifting a piece of the washing to the height of her head, and letting itdown with a swash and slap upon the board. It was a woman's garment, but certainly not hers. For she was small and slight. Her hair washidden under a towel. Her skirts were shortened to a pair of daintyankles by an extra under-fold at the neat, round waist. Her feet werethrust into a pair of sabots. She paused a moment in her work, and, lifting with both smoothly rounded arms, bared nearly to the shoulder, alarge apron from her waist, wiped the perspiration from her forehead. Itwas Mary. 

The red blood came up into the Doctor's pale, thin face. This was toooutrageous. This was insult! He stirred as if to move forward. He wouldconfront her. Yes, just as she was. He would speak. He would speakbluntly. He would chide sternly. He had the right. The only friend inthe world from whom she had not escaped beyond reach, --he would speakthe friendly, angry word that would stop this shocking--

But, truly, deeply incensed as he was, and felt it his right to be, hurt, wrung, exasperated, he did not advance. She had reached down andtaken from the wash-bench the lump of yellow soap that lay there, andwas soaping the garment on the board before her, turning it this way andthat. As she did this she began, all to herself and for her own ear, softly, with unconscious richness and tenderness of voice, to sing. Andwhat was her song?

 "Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?"

Down drooped the listener's head. Remember? Ah, memory!--The old, heart-rending memory! Sweet Alice!

 "Sweet Alice, whose hair was so brown?"

Yes, yes; so brown!--so brown!

 "She wept with delight when you gave her a smile, And trembled with fear at your frown. "

Ah! but the frown is gone! There is a look of supplication now. Sing nomore! Oh, sing no more! Yes, surely, she will stop there!

No. The voice rises gently--just a little--into the higher key, soft andclear as the note of a distant bird, and all unaware of a listener. Oh!in mercy's name--

 "In the old church-yard in the valley, Ben Bolt, In a corner obscure and alone, They have fitted a slab of granite so gray, And sweet Alice lies under the stone. "

The little toiling figure bent once more across the wash-board and beganto rub. He turned, the first dew of many a long year welling from eacheye, and stole away, out of the little yard and down the dark, slipperyalley, to the street. 

Mrs. Riley still stood on the door-sill, holding the child. 

"Good-evening, madam!"

"Sur, to you. " She bowed with dignity. 

"Is Mrs. Richling in?"

There was a shadow of triumph in her faint smile. 

"She is. "

"I should like to see her. "

Mrs. Riley hoisted her chin. "I dunno if she's a-seein' comp'ny to-day. "The voice was amiably important. "Wont ye walk in? Take a seat and sitdown, sur, and I'll go and infarm the laydie. "

"Thank you, " said the Doctor, but continued to stand. 

Mrs. Riley started and stopped again. 

"Ye forgot to give me yer kyaird, sur. " She drew her chin in againausterely. 

"Just say Dr. Sevier. "

"Certainly, sur; yes, that'll be sufficiend. And dispinse with thekyaird. " She went majestically. 

The Doctor, left alone, cast his uninterested glance around the smartlittle bare-floored parlor, upon its new, jig-sawed, gray hair-clothfurniture, and up upon a picture of the Pope. When Mrs. Riley, in amoment, returned he stood looking out the door. 

"Mrs. Richling consints to see ye, sur. She'll be in turreckly. Take aseat and sit down. " She readjusted the infant on her arm and lifted andswung a hair-cloth arm-chair toward him without visible exertion. "There's no use o' having chayers if ye don't sit on um, " she addedaffably. 

The Doctor sat down, and Mrs. Riley occupied the exact centre of thesmall, wide-eared, brittle-looking sofa, where she filled in the silentmoments that followed by pulling down the skirts of the infant'sapparel, oppressed with the necessity of keeping up a conversation andwith the want of subject-matter. The child stared at the Doctor, andsuddenly plunged toward him with a loud and very watery coo. 

"Ah-h!" said Mrs. Riley, in ostentatious rebuke. "Mike!" she cried, laughingly, as the action was repeated. "Ye rowdy, air ye go-un to fightthe gintleman?"

She laughed sincerely, and the Doctor could but notice how neat andgood-looking she was. He condescended to crook his finger at the babe. This seemed to exasperate the so-called rowdy. He planted his pink feeton his mother's thigh and gave a mighty lunge and whoop. 

"He's go-un to be a wicked bruiser, " said proud Mrs. Riley. "He"--thepronoun stood, this time, for her husband--"he never sah the child. Hewas kilt with an explosion before the child was barn. "

She held the infant on her strong arm as he struggled to throw himself, with wide-stretched jaws, upon her bosom; and might have been devouredby the wicked bruiser had not his attention been diverted by theentrance of Mary, who came in at last, all in fragrant white, withapologies for keeping the Doctor waiting. 

He looked down into her uplifted eyes. What a riddle is woman! Had henot just seen this one in sabots? Did she not certainly know, throughMrs. Riley, that he must have seen her so? Were not her skirts but justnow hitched up with an under-tuck, and fastened with a string? Had shenot just laid off, in hot haste, a suds-bespattered apron and thegarments of toil beneath it? Had not a towel been but now unbound fromthe hair shining here under his glance in luxuriant brown coils? Thisbrightness of eye, that seemed all exhilaration, was it not trepidationinstead? And this rosiness, so like redundant vigor, was it not theflush of her hot task? He fancied he saw--in truth he may have seen--adefiance in the eyes as he glanced upon, and tardily dropped, the littlewater-soaked hand with a bow. 

Mary turned to present Mrs. Riley, who bowed and said, trying to holdherself with majesty while Mike drew her head into his mouth: "Sur, "then turned with great ceremony to Mary, and adding, "I'll withdrah, "withdrew with the head and step of a duchess. 

"How is your husband, madam?"

"John?--is not well at all, Doctor; though he would say he was if hewere here. He doesn't shake off his chills. He is out, though, lookingfor work. He'd go as long as he could stand. "

She smiled; she almost laughed; but half an eye could see it was only toavoid the other thing. 

"Where does he go?"

"Everywhere!" She laughed this time audibly. 

"If he went everywhere I should see him, " said Dr. Sevier. 

"Ah! naturally, " responded Mary, playfully. "But he does go wherever hethinks there's work to be found. He doesn't wander clear out among theplantations, of course, where everybody has slaves, and there's no workbut slaves' work. And he says it's useless to think of a clerkship thistime of year. It must be, isn't it?"

The Doctor made no answer. 

There was a footstep in the alley. 

"He's coming now, " said Mary, --"that's he. He must have got work to-day. He has an acquaintance, an Italian, who promised to have something forhim to do very soon. Doctor, "--she began to put together the splitfractions of a palm-leaf fan, smiling diffidently at it the while, --"Ican't see how it is any discredit to a man not to have a _knack_ formaking money?"

She lifted her peculiar look of radiant inquiry. 

"It is not, madam. "

Mary laughed for joy. The light of her face seemed to spread clear intoher locks. 

"Well, I knew you'd say so! John blames himself; he can make money, youknow, Doctor, but he blames himself because he hasn't that natural giftfor it that Mr. Ristofalo has. Why, Mr. Ristofalo is simply wonderful!"She smiled upon her fan in amused reminiscence. "John is always wishinghe had his gift. "

"My dear madam, don't covet it! At least don't exchange it for anythingelse. "

The Doctor was still in this mood of disapprobation when John entered. The radiancy of the young husband's greeting hid for a moment, but onlyso long, the marks of illness and adversity. Mary followed him with hersmiling eyes as the two men shook hands, and John drew a chair near toher and sat down with a sigh of mingled pleasure and fatigue. 

She told him of whom she and their visitor had just been speaking. 

"Raphael Ristofalo!" said John, kindling afresh. "Yes; I've been withhim all day. It humiliates me to think of him. "

Dr. Sevier responded quietly:--

"You've no right to let it humiliate you, sir. "

Mary turned to John with dancing eyes, but he passed the utterance as amere compliment, and said, through his smiles:--

"Just see how it is to-day. I have been overseeing the unloading of alittle schooner from Ruatan island loaded with bananas, cocoanuts, andpine-apples. I've made two dollars; he has made a hundred. "

Richling went on eagerly to tell about the plain, lustreless man whoseone homely gift had fascinated him. The Doctor was entertained. Thenarrator sparkled and glowed as he told of Ristofalo's appearance, andreproduced his speeches and manner. 

"Tell about the apples and eggs, " said the delighted Mary. 

He did so, sitting on the front edge of his chair-seat, and sprawlinghis legs now in front and now behind him as he swung now around to hiswife and now to the Doctor. Mary laughed softly at every period, andwatched the Doctor, to see his slight smile at each detail of the story. Richling enjoyed telling it; he had worked; his earnings were in hispocket; gladness was easy. 

"Why, I'm learning more from Raphael Ristofalo than I ever learned frommy school-masters: I'm learning the art of livelihood. "

He ran on from Ristofalo to the men among whom he had been mingling allday. He mimicked the strange, long swing of their Sicilian speech; toldof their swarthy faces and black beards, their rich instinct for colorin costume; their fierce conversation and violent gestures; the energyof their movements when they worked, and the profoundness of theirrepose when they rested; the picturesqueness and grotesqueness of thenegroes, too; the huge, flat, round baskets of fruit which the black mencarried on their heads, and which the Sicilians bore on their shouldersor the nape of the neck. The "captain" of the schooner was a centralfigure. 

"Doctor, " asked Richling, suddenly, "do you know anything about theisland of Cozumel?"

"Aha!" thought Mary. So there was something besides the day's earningthat elated him. 

She had suspected it. She looked at her husband with an expression ofthe most alert pleasure. The Doctor noticed it. 

"No, " he said, in reply to Richling's question. 

"It stands out in the Gulf of Mexico, off the coast of Yucatan, " beganRichling. 

"Yes, I know that. "

"Well, Mary, I've almost promised the schooner captain that we'll gothere. He wants to get up a colony. "

Mary started. 

"Why, John!" She betrayed a look of dismay, glanced at their visitor, tried to say "Have you?" approvingly, and blushed. 

The Doctor made no kind of response. 

"Now, don't conclude, " said John to Mary, coloring too, but smiling. Heturned to the physician. "It's a wonderful spot, Doctor. "

But the Doctor was still silent, and Richling turned. 

"Just to think, Mary, of a place where you can raise all the products oftwo zones; where health is almost perfect; where the yellow fever hasnever been; and where there is such beauty as can be only in the tropicsand a tropical sea. Why, Doctor, I can't understand why Europeans orAmericans haven't settled it long ago. "

"I suppose we can find out before we go, can't we?" said Mary, lookingtimorously back and forth between John and the Doctor. 

"The reason is, " replied John, "it's so little known. Just one islandaway out by itself. Three crops of fruit a year. One acre planted inbananas feeds fifty men. All the capital a man need have is an axe tocut down the finest cabinet and dye-woods in the world. The thermometernever goes above ninety nor below forty. You can hire all the labor youwant at a few cents a day. "

Mary's diligent eye detected a cloud on the Doctor's face. But John, though nettled, pushed on the more rapidly. 

"A man can make--easily!--a thousand dollars the first year, and live ontwo hundred and fifty. It's the place for a poor man. "

He looked a little defiant. 

"Of course, " said Mary, "I know you wouldn't come to an opinion"--shesmiled with the same restless glance--"until you had made all theinquiries necessary. It mu--must--be a delightful place. Doctor?"

Her eyes shone blue as the sky. 

"I wouldn't send a convict to such a place, " said Dr. Sevier. 

Richling flamed up. 

"Don't you think, " he began to say with visible restraint and a faint, ugly twist of the head, --"don't you think it's a better place for a poorman than a great, heartless town?"

"This isn't a heartless town, " said the Doctor. 

"He doesn't mean it as you do, Doctor, " interposed Mary, with alarm. "John, you ought to explain. "

"Than a great town, " said Richling, "where a man of honest intentionsand real desire to live and be useful and independent; who wants to earnhis daily bread at any honorable cost, and who can't do it because thetown doesn't want his services, and will not have them--cango"-- He ceased, with his sentence all tangled. 

"No!" the Doctor was saying meanwhile. "No! No! No!"

"Here I go, day after day, " persisted Richling, extending his arm andpointing indefinitely through the window. 

"No, no, you don't, John, " cried Mary, with an effort at gayety; "youdon't go by the window, John; you go by the door. " She pulled his armdown tenderly. 

"I go by the alley, " said John. Silence followed. The young paircontrived to force a little laugh, and John made an apologetic move. 

"Doctor, " he exclaimed, with an air of pleasantry, "the whole town'sasleep!--sound asleep, like a negro in the sunshine! There isn't workfor one man in fifty!" He ended tremulously. Mary looked at him withdropped face but lifted eyes, handling the fan, whose rent she had madeworse. 

"Richling, my friend, "--the Doctor had never used that termbefore, --"what does your Italian money-maker say to the idea?"

Richling gave an Italian shrug and his own pained laugh. 

"Exactly! Why, Mr. Richling, you're on an island now, --an island inmid-ocean. Both of you!" He waved his hands toward the two withoutlifting his head from the back of the easy-chair, where he had droppedit. 

"What do you mean, Doctor?"

"Mean? Isn't my meaning plain enough? I mean you're too independent. You know very well, Richling, that you've started out in life with somefanciful feud against the 'world. ' What it is I don't know, but I'm sureit's not the sort that religion requires. You've told this world--youremember you said it to me once--that if it will go one road you'llgo another. You've forgotten that, mean and stupid and bad as yourfellow-creatures are, they're your brothers and sisters, and thatthey have claims on you as such, and that you have claims on them assuch. --Cozumel! You're there now! Has a friend no rights? I don't knowyour immediate relatives, and I say nothing about them"--

John gave a slight start, and Mary looked at him suddenly. 

"But here am I, " continued the speaker. "Is it just to me for you tohide away here in want that forces you and your wife--I beg your pardon, madam--into mortifying occupations, when one word to me--a trivialobligation, not worthy to be called an obligation, contracted withme--would remove that necessity, and tide you over the emergency of thehour?"

Richling was already answering, not by words only, but by his confidentsmile:--

"Yes, sir; yes, it is just: ask Mary. "

"Yes, Doctor, " interposed the wife. "We went over"--

"We went over it together, " said John. "We weighed it well. It _is_just, --not to ask aid as long as there's hope without it. "

The Doctor responded with the quiet air of one who is sure of hisposition:--

"Yes, I see. But, of course--I know without asking--you left thequestion of health out of your reckoning. Now, Richling, put the wholeworld, if you choose, in a selfish attitude"--

"No, no, " said Richling and his wife. "Ah, no!" But the Doctorpersisted. 

"--a purely selfish attitude. Wouldn't it, nevertheless, rather help awell man or woman than a sick one? Wouldn't it pay better?"

"Yes, but"--

"Yes, " said the Doctor. "But you're taking the most desperate risksagainst health and life. " He leaned forward in his chair, jerked in hislegs, and threw out his long white hands. "You're committing slowsuicide. "

"Doctor, " began Mary; but her husband had the floor. 

"Doctor, " he said, "can you put yourself in our place? Wouldn't yourather die than beg? _Wouldn't_ you?"

The Doctor rose to his feet as straight as a lance. 

"It isn't what you'd rather, sir! You haven't your choice! You haven'tyour choice at all, sir! When God gets ready for you to die he'll letyou know, sir! And you've no right to trifle with his mercy in themeanwhile. I'm not a man to teach men to whine after each other for aid;but every principle has its limitations, Mr. Richling. You say you wentover the whole subject. Yes; well, didn't you strike the fact thatsuicide is an affront to civilization and humanity?"

"Why, Doctor!" cried the other two, rising also. "We're not going tocommit suicide. "

"No, " retorted he, "you're not. That's what I came here to tell you. I'mhere to prevent it. "

"Doctor, " exclaimed Mary, the big tears standing in her eyes, and theDoctor melting before them like wax, "it's not so bad as it looks. Iwash--some--because it pays so much better than sewing. I find I'mstronger than any one would believe. I'm stronger than I ever was beforein my life. I am, indeed. I _don't_ wash _much_. And it's only for thepresent. We'll all be laughing at this, some time, together. " She begana small part of the laugh then and there. 

"You'll do it no more, " the Doctor replied. He drew out his pocket-book. "Mr. Richling, will you please send me through the mail, or bring me, your note for fifty dollars, --at your leisure, you know, --payable ondemand?" He rummaged an instant in the pocket-book, and extended hishand with a folded bank-note between his thumb and finger. But Richlingcompressed his lips and shook his head, and the two men stood silentlyconfronting each other. Mary laid her hand upon her husband's shoulderand leaned against him, with her eyes on the Doctor's face. 

"Come, Richling, "--the Doctor smiled, --"your friend Ristofalo did nottreat you in this way. "

"I never treated Ristofalo so, " replied Richling, with a smile tingedwith bitterness. It was against himself that he felt bitter; but theDoctor took it differently, and Richling, seeing this, hurried tocorrect the impression. 

"I mean I lent him no such amount as that. "

"It was just one-fiftieth of that, " said Mary. 

"But you gave liberally, without upbraiding, " said the Doctor. 

"Oh, no, Doctor! no!" exclaimed she, lifting the hand that lay on herhusband's near shoulder and reaching it over to the farther one. "Oh! athousand times no! John never meant that. Did you, John?"

"How could I?" said John. "No!" Yet there was confession in his look. Hehad not meant it, but he had felt it. 

Dr. Sevier sat down, motioned them into their seats, drew the arm-chairclose to theirs. Then he spoke. He spoke long, and as he had not spokenanywhere but at the bedside scarce ever in his life before. The younghusband and wife forgot that he had ever said a grating word. A softlove-warmth began to fill them through and through. They seemed tolisten to the gentle voice of an older and wiser brother. A hand of Marysank unconsciously upon a hand of John. They smiled and assented, andsmiled, and assented, and Mary's eyes brimmed up with tears, and Johncould hardly keep his down. The Doctor made the whole case so plain andhis propositions so irresistibly logical that the pair looked from hiseyes to each other's and laughed. "Cozumel!" They did not utter thename; they only thought of it both at one moment. It never passed theirlips again. Their visitor brought them to an arrangement. The fiftydollars were to be placed to John's credit on the books kept byNarcisse, as a deposit from Richling, and to be drawn against by him insuch littles as necessity might demand. It was to be "secured"--they allthree smiled at that word--by Richling's note payable on demand. TheDoctor left a prescription for the refractory chills. 

As he crossed Canal street, walking in slow meditation homeward at thehour of dusk, a tall man standing against a wall, tin cup in hand, --afull-fledged mendicant of the steam-boiler explosion, tin-proclamationtype, --asked his alms. He passed by, but faltered, stopped, let his handdown into his pocket, and looked around to see if his pernicious examplewas observed. None saw him. He felt--he saw himself--a drivellingsentimentalist. But weak, and dazed, sore wounded of the archers, heturned and dropped a dime into the beggar's cup. 

Richling was too restless with the joy of relief to sit or stand. Hetrumped up an errand around the corner, and hardly got back before hecontrived another. He went out to the bakery for some crackers--freshbaked--for Mary; listened to a long story across the baker's counter, and when he got back to his door found he had left the crackers at thebakery. He went back for them and returned, the blood about his heartstill running and leaping and praising God. 

"The sun at midnight!" he exclaimed, knitting Mary's hands in his. "You're very tired. Go to bed. Me? I can't yet. I'm too restless. "

He spent more than an hour chatting with Mrs. Riley, and had never foundher so "nice" a person before; so easy comes human fellowship when wehave had a stroke of fortune. When he went again to his room there wasMary kneeling by the bedside, with her head slipped under the snowymosquito net, all in fine linen, white as the moonlight, frilled andbroidered, a remnant of her wedding glory gleaming through the long, heavy wefts of her unbound hair. 

"Why, Mary"--

There was no answer. 

"Mary?" he said again, laying his hand upon her head. 

The head was slowly lifted. She smiled an infant's smile, and droppedher cheek again upon the bedside. She had fallen asleep at the foot ofthe Throne. 

At that same hour, in an upper chamber of a large, distant house, thereknelt another form, with bared, bowed head, but in the garb in which ithad come in from the street. Praying? This white thing overtaken bysleep here was not more silent. Yet--yes, praying. But, all the while, the prayer kept running to a little tune, and the words repeatingthemselves again and again; "Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice--withhair so brown--so brown--so brown? Sweet Alice, with hair so brown?" AndGod bent his ear and listened. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

BORROWER TURNED LENDER. 

It was only a day or two later that the Richlings, one afternoon, havingbeen out for a sunset walk, were just reaching Mrs. Riley's door-stepagain, when they were aware of a young man approaching from the oppositedirection with the intention of accosting them. They brought theirconversation to a murmurous close. 

For it was not what a mere acquaintance could have joined them in, albeit its subject was the old one of meat and raiment. Their talk hadbeen light enough on their starting out, notwithstanding John had earnednothing that day. But it had toned down, or, we might say up, to asober, though not a sombre, quality. John had in some way evolved theassertion that even the life of the body alone is much more than foodand clothing and shelter; so much more, that only a divine provision cansustain it; so much more, that the fact is, when it fails, it generallyfails with meat and raiment within easy reach. 

Mary devoured his words. His spiritual vision had been a little cloudedof late, and now, to see it clear-- She closed her eyes for bliss. 

"Why, John, " she said, "you make it plainer than any preacher I everheard. "

This, very naturally, silenced John. And Mary, hoping to start himagain, said:--

"Heaven provides. And yet I'm sure you're right in seeking our food andraiment?" She looked up inquiringly. 

"Yes; like the fowls, the provision is made _for_ us through us. Themistake is in making those things the _end_ of our search. "

"Why, certainly!" exclaimed Mary, softly. She took fresh hold in herhusband's arm; the young man was drawing near. 

"It's Narcisse!" murmured John. The Creole pressed suddenly forward witha joyous smile, seized Richling's hand, and, lifting his hat to Mary asJohn presented him, brought his heels together and bowed from the hips. 

"I wuz juz coming at yo' 'ouse, Mistoo Itchlin. Yesseh. I wuz juzsitting in my 'oom afteh dinneh, envelop' in my _'obe de chambre_, whenall at once I says to myseff, 'Faw distwaction I will go and see MistooItchlin!'"

"Will you walk in?" said the pair. 

Mrs. Riley, standing in the door of her parlor, made way by descendingto the sidewalk. Her calico was white, with a small purple figure, andwas highly starched and beautifully ironed. Purple ribbons were at herwaist and throat. As she reached the ground Mary introduced Narcisse. She smiled winningly, and when she said, with a courtesy: "Proud to knowye, sur, " Narcisse was struck with the sweetness of her tone. But sheswept away with a dramatic tread. 

"Will you walk in?" Mary repeated; and Narcisse responded:--

"If you will pummit me yo' attention a few moment'. " He bowed again andmade way for Mary to precede him. 

"Mistoo Itchlin, " he continued, going in, "in fact you don't give MissesWitchlin my last name with absolute co'ectness. "

"Did I not? Why, I hope you'll pardon"--

"Oh, I'm glad of it. I don' feel lak a pusson is my fwen' whilst theydon't call me Nahcisse. " He directed his remark particularly to Mary. 

"Indeed?" responded she. "But, at the same time, Mr. Richling wouldhave"-- She had turned to John, who sat waiting to catch her eye withsuch intense amusement betrayed in his own that she saved herselffrom laughter and disgrace only by instant silence. 

"Yesseh, " said Narcisse to Richling, "'tis the tooth. "

He cast his eye around upon the prevailing hair-cloth and varnish. 

"Misses Witchlin, I muz tell you I like yo' tas'e in that pawlah. "

"It's Mrs. Riley's taste, " said Mary. 

"'Tis a beaucheouz tas'e, " insisted the Creole, contemplatively, gazingat the Pope's vestments tricked out with blue, scarlet, and giltspangles. "Well, Mistoo Itchlin, since some time I've been stipulatingme to do myseff that honoh, seh, to come at yo' 'ouse; well, ad the endI am yeh. I think you fine yoseff not ve'y well those days. Is that nodthe case, Mistoo Itchlin?"

"Oh, I'm well enough!" Richling ended with a laugh, somewhatexplosively. Mary looked at him with forced gravity as he suppressed it. He had to draw his nose slowly through his thumb and two fingers beforehe could quite command himself. Mary relieved him by responding:--

"No, Mr. Richling hasn't been well for some time. "

Narcisse responded triumphantly:--

"It stwuck me--so soon I pe'ceive you--that you 'ave the ai' of avaledictudina'y. Thass a ve'y fawtunate that you ah 'esiding in a'ealthsome pawt of the city, in fact. "

Both John and Mary laughed and demurred. 

"You don't think?" asked the smiling visitor. "Me, I dunno, --I fine onething. If a man don't die fum one thing, yet, still, he'll die fumsomething. I 'ave study that out, Mistoo Itchlin. 'To be, aw to not be, thaz the queztion, ' in fact. I don't ca'e if you live one place aw ifyou live anotheh place, 'tis all the same, --you've got to pay to live!"

The Richlings laughed again, and would have been glad to laugh more; buteach, without knowing it of the other, was reflecting with somemortification upon the fact that, had they been talking French, Narcissewould have bitten his tongue off before any of his laughter should havebeen at their expense. 

"Indeed you have got to pay to live, " said John, stepping to the windowand drawing up its painted paper shade. "Yes, and"--

"Ah!" exclaimed Mary, with gentle disapprobation. She met her husband'seye with a smile of protest. "John, " she said, "Mr. ----" she couldn'tthink of the name. 

"Nahcisse, " said the Creole. 

"Will think, " she continued, her amusement climbing into her eyes inspite of her, "you're in earnest. "

"Well, I am, partly. Narcisse knows, as well as we do that there are twosides to the question. " He resumed his seat. "I reckon"--

"Yes, " said Narcisse, "and what you muz look out faw, 'tis to git on thesoff side. "

They all laughed. 

"I was going to say, " said Richling, "the world takes us as we come, 'sight-unseen. ' Some of us pay expenses, some don't. "

"Ah!" rejoined Narcisse, looking up at the whitewashed ceiling, "those egspenze'!" He raised his hand and dropped it. "I _fine_ it so_diffycul'_ to defeat those egspenze'! In fact, Mistoo Itchlin, such ahthe state of my financial emba'assment that I do not go out at all. Istay in, in fact. I stay at my 'ouse--to light' those egspenze'!"

They were all agreed that expenses could be lightened thus. 

"And by making believe you don't want things, " said Mary. 

"Ah!" exclaimed Narcisse, "I nevvah kin do that!" and Richling gave alaugh that was not without sympathy. "But I muz tell you, MistooItchlin, I am aztonizh at _you_. "

An instant apprehension seized John and Mary. They _knew_ theirill-concealed amusement would betray them, and now they were to becalled to account. But no. 

"Yesseh, " continued Narcisse, "you 'ave the gweatez o'casion to be thesubjec' of congwatulation, Mistoo Itchlin, to 'ave the poweh to_ac_cum'late money in those hawd time' like the pwesen'!"

The Richlings cried out with relief and amused surprise. 

"Why, you couldn't make a greater mistake!"

"Mistaken! Hah! W'en I ged that memo'andum f'om Dr. Seveeah to paz thatfifty dollah at yo' cwedit, it burz f'om me, that egs_clam_ation!'Acchilly! 'ow that Mistoo Itchlin deserve the 'espect to save a lillquantity of money like that!"

The laughter of John and Mary did not impede his rhapsody, nor theirprotestations shake his convictions. 

"Why, " said Richling, lolling back, "the Doctor has simply omitted tohave you make the entry of"--

But he had no right to interfere with the Doctor's accounts. However, Narcisse was not listening. 

"You' compel' to be witch some day, Mistoo Itchlin, ad that wate ofp'ogwess; I am convince of that. I can deteg that indis_pu_tably in yo'physio'nomie. Me--I _can't_ save a cent! Mistoo Itchlin, you would beaztonizh to know 'ow bad I want some money, in fact; exceb that I am_too_ pwoud to dizclose you that state of my condition!"

He paused and looked from John to Mary, and from Mary to John again. 

"Why, I'll declare, " said Richling, sincerely, dropping forward with hischin on his hand, "I'm sorry to hear"--

But Narcisse interrupted. 

"Diffyculty with me--I am not willing to baw'. "

Mary drew a long breath and glanced at her husband. He changed hisattitude and, looking upon the floor, said, "Yes, yes. " He slowly markedthe bare floor with the edge of his shoe-sole. "And yet there are timeswhen duty actually"--

"I believe you, Mistoo Itchlin, " said Narcisse, quickly forestallingMary's attempt to speak. "Ah, Mistoo Itchlin! _if_ I had baw'd moneyligue the huncle of my hant!" He waved his hand to the ceiling andlooked up through that obstruction, as it were, to the witnessing sky. "But I _hade_ that--to baw'! I tell you 'ow 'tis with me, MistooItchlin; I nevvah would consen' to baw' money on'y if I pay a biginte'es' on it. An' I'm compel' to tell you one thing, Mistoo Itchlin, in fact: I nevvah would leave money with Doctah Seveeah to invez fawme--no!"

Richling gave a little start, and cast his eyes an instant toward hiswife. She spoke. 

"We'd rather you wouldn't say that to us, Mister ----" There was acommanding smile at one corner of her lips. "You don't know what afriend"--

Narcisse had already apologized by two or three gestures to each of hishearers. 

"Misses Itchlin--Mistoo Itchlin, "--he shook his head and smiledskeptically, --"you think you kin admiah Doctah Seveeah mo' than me? 'Tisuzeless to attempt. 'With all 'is fault I love 'im still. '"

Richling and his wife both spoke at once. 

"But John and I, " exclaimed Mary, electrically, "love him, faults andall!"

She looked from husband to visitor, and from visitor to husband, andlaughed and laughed, pushing her small feet back and forth alternatelyand softly clapping her hands. Narcisse felt her in the centre of hisheart. He laughed. John laughed. 

"What I mean, Mistoo Itchlin, " resumed Narcisse, preferring to avoidMary's aroused eye, --"what I mean--Doctah Seveeah don't un'stan' thatkine of business co'ectly. Still, ad the same time, if I was you I knowI would 'ate faw my money not to be makin' me some inte'es'. I tell youwhat I would do with you, Mistoo Itchlin, in fact: I kin baw' that fiftydollah f'om you myseff. "

Richling repressed a smile. "Thank you! But I don't care to invest it. "

"Pay you ten pe' cent. A month. "

"But we can't spare it, " said Richling, smiling toward Mary. "We mayneed part of it ourselves. "

"I tell you, 'eally, Mistoo Itchlin, I nevveh baw' money; but it juz'appen I kin use that juz at the pwesent. "

"Why, John, " said Mary, "I think you might as well say plainly that themoney is borrowed money. "

"That's what it is, " responded Richling, and rose to spread thestreet-door wider open, for the daylight was fading. 

"Well, I 'ope you'll egscuse that libbetty, " said Narcisse, rising alittle more tardily, and slower. "I muz baw' fawty dollah--some place. Give you good secu'ty--give you my note, Mistoo Itchlin, in fact; muzbaw fawty--aw thutty-five. "

"Why, I'm very sorry, " responded Richling, really ashamed that he couldnot hold his face straight. "I hope you understand"--

"Mistoo Itchlin, 'tis baw'd money. If you had a necessity faw it youwould use it. If a fwend 'ave a necessity--'tis anotheh thing--you don'tfeel that libbetty--you ah 'ight--I honoh you"--

"I _don't_ feel the same liberty. "

"Mistoo Itchlin, " said Narcisse, with noble generosity, throwing himselfa half step forward, "if it was yoze you'd baw' it to me in a minnit!"He smiled with benign delight. "Well, madame, --I bid you good evening, Misses Itchlin. The bes' of fwen's muz pawt, you know. " He turned againto Richling with a face all beauty and a form all grace. "I was juzsitting--mistfully--all at once I says to myseff, 'Faw distwactionI'll go an' see Mistoo Itchlin. ' I don't _know_ 'ow I juz'appen'!-- Well, _au 'evo'_, Mistoo Itchlin. "

Richling followed him out upon the door-step. There Narcisse intimatedthat even twenty dollars for a few days would supply a stern want. Andwhen Richling was compelled again to refuse, Narcisse solicited hiscompany as far as the next corner. There the Creole covered him withshame by forcing him to refuse the loan of ten dollars, and then offive. 

It was a full hour before Richling rejoined his wife. Mrs. Riley hadstepped off to some neighbor's door with Mike on her arm. Mary was onthe sidewalk. 

"John, " she said, in a low voice, and with a long anxious look. 

"What?"

"He _didn't_ take the only dollar of your own in the world?"

"Mary, what could I do? It seemed a crime to give, and a crime not togive. He cried like a child; said it was all a sham about his dinner andhis _robe de chambre_. An aunt, two little cousins, an aged uncle athome--and not a cent in the house! What could I do? He says he'll returnit in three days. "

"And"--Mary laughed distressfully--"you believed him?" She looked at himwith an air of tender, painful admiration, half way between a laugh anda cry. 

"Come, sit down, " he said, sinking upon the little wooden buttress atone side of the door-step. 

Tears sprang into her eyes. She shook her head. 

"Let's go inside. " And in there she told him sincerely, "No, no, no; shedidn't think he had done wrong"--when he knew he had. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

WEAR AND TEAR. 

The arrangement for Dr. Sevier to place the loan of fifty dollars on hisown books at Richling's credit naturally brought Narcisse into relationwith it. 

It was a case of love at first sight. From the moment the record ofRichling's "little quantity" slid from the pen to the page, Narcisse hadfelt himself betrothed to it by destiny, and hourly supplicated theawful fates to frown not upon the amorous hopes of him unaugmented. Richling descended upon him once or twice and tore away from his embracesmall fractions of the coveted treasure, choosing, through a diffidencewhich he mistook for a sort of virtue, the time of day when he would notsee Dr. Sevier; and at the third visitation took the entire goldenfleece away with him rather than encounter again the always more or lesssuccessful courtship of the scorner of loans. 

A faithful suitor, however, was not thus easily shaken off. Narcissebecame a frequent visitor at the Richlings', where he never mentionedmoney; that part was left to moments of accidental meeting with Richlingin the street, which suddenly began to occur at singularly shortintervals. 

Mary labored honestly and arduously to dislike him--to hold a repellentattitude toward him. But he was too much for her. It was easy enoughwhen he was absent; but one look at his handsome face, so rife withanimal innocence, and despite herself she was ready to reward hisdisplays of sentiment and erudition with laughter that, mean what itmight, always pleased and flattered him. 

"Can you help liking him?" she would ask John. "I can't, to save mylife!"

Had the treasure been earnings, Richling said--and believed--he couldfirmly have repelled Narcisse's importunities. But coldly to withhold anoccasional modest heave-offering of that which was the free bounty ofanother to him was more than he could do. 

"But, " said Mary, straightening his cravat, "you intend to pay up, andhe--you don't think I'm uncharitable, do you?"

"I'd rather give my last cent than think you so, " replied John. "Still, "--laying the matter before her with both open hands, --"if yousay plainly not to give him another cent I'll do as you say. The money'sno more mine than yours. "

"Well, you can have all my share, " said Mary, pleasantly. 

So the weeks passed and the hoard dwindled. 

"What has it got down to, now?" asked John, frowningly, on more than onemorning as he was preparing to go out. And Mary, who had been madetreasurer, could count it at a glance without taking it out of herpurse. 

One evening, when Narcisse called, he found no one at home but Mrs. Riley. The infant Mike had been stuffed with rice and milk and laid awayto slumber. The Richlings would hardly be back in less than an hour. 

"I'm so'y, " said Narcisse, with a baffled frown, as he sat down and Mrs. Riley took her seat opposite. "I came to 'epay 'em some moneys which hemade me the loan--juz in a fwenly way. And I came to 'epay 'im. Thesum-total, in fact--I suppose he nevva mentioned you about that, eh?"

"No, sir; but, still, if"--

"No, and so I can't pay it to you. I'm so'y. Because I know he woon likeit, I know, if he fine that you know he's been bawing money to me. Well, Misses Wiley, in fact, thass a _ve'y_ fine gen'leman and lady--thatMistoo and Misses Itchlin, in fact?"

"Well, now, Mr. Narcisse, ye'r about right? She's just too good tolive--and he's not much better--ha! ha!" She checked her jesting mood. "Yes, sur, they're very peaceable, quiet people. They're just simplyferst tlass. "

"'Tis t'ue, " rejoined the Creole, fanning himself with his straw hat andlooking at the Pope. "And they handsome and genial, as the lite'ati sayon the noozpapeh. Seem like they almoze wedded to each otheh. "

"Well, now, sir, that's the trooth!" She threw her open hand down withemphasis. 

"And isn't that as man and wife should be?"

"Yo' mighty co'ect, Misses Wiley!" Narcisse gave his pretty head alittle shake from side to side as he spoke. 

"Ah! Mr. Narcisse, "--she pointed at herself, --"haven't I been a wife?The husband and wife--they'd aht to jist be each other's guairdjianangels! Hairt to hairt sur; sperit to sperit. All the rist is nawthing, Mister Narcisse. " She waved her hands. "Min is different from women, sur. " She looked about on the ceiling. Her foot noiselessly patted thefloor. 

"Yes, " said Narcisse, "and thass the cause that they dwess them dif'ent. To show the dif'ence, you know. "

"Ah! no. It's not the mortial frame, sur; it's the sperit. The sperit ofman is not the sperit of woman. The sperit of woman is not the sperit ofman. Each one needs the other, sur. They needs each other, sur, topurify and strinthen and enlairge each other's speritu'l life. Ah, sur!Doo not I feel those things, sur?" She touched her heart with onebackward-pointed finger, "_I_ doo. It isn't good for min to bealone--much liss for women. Do not misunderstand me, sur; I speak as awidder, sur--and who always will be--ah! yes, I will--ha! ha! ha!" Shehushed her laugh as if this were going too far, tossed her head, andcontinued smiling. 

So they talked on. Narcisse did not stay an hour, but there waslittle of the hour left when he rose to go. They had passed a pleasanttime. The Creole, it is true, tried and failed to take the helm ofconversation. Mrs. Riley held it. But she steered well. She was stillexpatiating on the "strinthenin'" spiritual value of the marriagerelation when she, too, stood up. 

"And that's what Mr. And Madam Richlin's a-doin' all the time. And theydo ut to perfiction, sur--jist to perfiction!"

"I doubt it not, Misses Wiley. Well, Misses Wiley, I bid you _au'evoi'_. I dunno if you'll pummit me, but I am compel to tell you, Misses Wiley, I nevva yeh anybody in my life with such a educated andtalented conve'sation like yo'seff. Misses Wiley, at what univussity didyou gwaduate?"

"Well, reely, Mister--eh"--she fanned herself with broad sweeps of herpurple bordered palm-leaf--"reely, sur, if I don't furgit the nameI--I--I'll be switched! Ha! ha! ha!"

Narcisse joined in the laugh. 

"Thaz the way, sometime, " he said, and then with sudden gravity: "And, by-the-by, Misses Wiley, speakin' of Mistoo Itchlin, --if you could baw'me two dollahs an' a 'alf juz till tomaw mawnin--till I kin sen' it youfum the office-- Because that money I've got faw Mistoo Itchlin isin the shape of a check, and anyhow I'm c'owding me a little to pay thatwhole sum-total to Mistoo Itchlin. I kin sen' it you firs' thing my bankopen tomaw mawnin. "

Do you think he didn't get it?

 * * *

"What has it got down to now?" John asked again, a few mornings afterNarcisse's last visit. Mary told him. He stepped a little way aside, averting his face, dropped his forehead into his hand, and returned. 

"I don't see--I don't see, Mary--I"--

"Darling, " she replied, reaching and capturing both his hands, "who doessee? The rich _think_ they see; but do they, John? Now, _do_ they?"

The frown did not go quite off his face, but he took her head betweenhis hands and kissed her temple. 

"You're always trying to lift me, " he said. 

"Don't you lift me?" she replied, looking up between his hands andsmiling. 

"Do I?"

"You know you do. Don't you remember the day we took that walk, and yousaid that after all it never is we who provide?" She looked at thebutton of his coat, which she twirled in her fingers. "That word liftedme. "

"But suppose I can't practice the trust I preach?" he said. 

"You do trust, though. You have trusted. "

"Past tense, " said John. He lifted her hands slowly away from him, andmoved toward the door of their chamber. He could not help looking backat the eyes that followed him, and then he could not bear their look. "I--I suppose a man mustn't trust too much, " he said. 

"Can he?" asked Mary, leaning against a table. 

"Oh, yes, he can, " replied John; but his tone lacked conviction. 

"If it's the right kind?"

Her eyes were full of tears. 

"I'm afraid mine's not the right kind, then, " said John, and passed outinto and down the street. 

But what a mind he took with him--what torture of questions! Was hebeing lifted or pulled down? His tastes, --were they rising or sinking?Were little negligences of dress and bearing and in-door attitudecreeping into his habits? Was he losing his discriminative sense ofquantity, time, distance? Did he talk of small achievements, smallgains, and small truths, as though they were great? Had he learned tocarp at the rich, and to make honesty the excuse for all penury? Had hethese various poverty-marks? He looked at himself outside and inside, and feared to answer. One thing he knew, --that he was having greatwrestlings. 

He turned his thoughts to Ristofalo. This was a common habit with him. Not only in thought, but in person, he hovered with a positiveinfatuation about this man of perpetual success. 

Lately the Italian had gone out of town, into the country of LaFourche, to buy standing crops of oranges. Richling fed his hope on thepossibilities that might follow Ristofalo's return. His friend wouldwant him to superintend the gathering and shipment of those crops--whenthey should be ripe--away yonder in November. Frantic thought! A man andhis wife could starve to death twenty times before then. 

Mrs. Riley's high esteem for John and Mary had risen from the date ofthe Doctor's visit, and the good woman thought it but right somewhat toincrease the figures of their room-rent to others more in keeping withsuch high gentility. How fast the little hoard melted away!

And the summer continued on, --the long, beautiful, glaring, implacablesummer; its heat quaking on the low roofs; its fig-trees dropping theirshrivelled and blackened leaves and writhing their weird, bare branchesunder the scorching sun; the long-drawn, frying note of its cicadathrobbing through the mid-day heat from the depths of the becalmed oak;its universal pall of dust on the myriad red, sleep-heavy blossoms ofthe oleander and the white tulips of the lofty magnolia; its twinklingpomegranates hanging their apples of scarlet and gold over the gardenwall; its little chameleons darting along the hot fence-tops; itsfar-stretching, empty streets; its wide hush of idleness; its solitaryvultures sailing in the upper blue; its grateful clouds; its hot northwinds, its cool south winds; its gasping twilight calms; its gorgeousnights, --the long, long summer lingered on into September. 

One evening, as the sun was sinking below the broad, flat land, itsburning disk reddened by a low golden haze of suspended dust, Richlingpassed slowly toward his home, coming from a lower part of the town byway of the quadroon quarter. He was paying little notice, or none, tohis whereabouts, wending his way mechanically, in the dejected reverieof weary disappointment, and with voiceless inward screamings andgroanings under the weight of those thoughts which had lately taken uptheir stay in his dismayed mind. But all at once his attention waschallenged by a strange, offensive odor. He looked up and around, sawnothing, turned a corner, and found himself at the intersection of Tréméand St. Anne streets, just behind the great central prison of NewOrleans. 

The "Parish Prison" was then only about twenty-five years old; but ithad made haste to become offensive to every sense and sentiment ofreasonable man. It had been built in the Spanish style, --a massive, dark, grim, huge, four-sided block, the fissure-like windows of itscells looking down into the four public streets which ran immediatelyunder its walls. Dilapidation had followed hard behind ill-buildingcontractors. Down its frowning masonry ran grimy streaks of leakage overpeeling stucco and mould-covered brick. Weeds bloomed high aloft in thebroken gutters under the scant and ragged eaves. Here and there thepale, debauched face of a prisoner peered shamelessly down throughshattered glass or rusted grating; and everywhere in the stillatmosphere floated the stifling smell of the unseen loathsomenesswithin. 

Richling paused. As he looked up he noticed a bat dart out from a longcrevice under the eaves. Two others followed. Then three--a dozen--ahundred--a thousand--millions. All along the two sides of the prison inview they poured forth in a horrid black torrent, --myriads upon myriads. They filled the air. They came and came. Richling stood and gazed; andstill they streamed out in gibbering waves, until the wonder was thatanything but a witch's dream could contain them. 

The approach of another passer roused him, and he started on. The stepgained upon him--closed up with him; and at the moment when he expectedto see the person go by, a hand was laid gently on his shoulder. 

"Mistoo Itchlin, I 'ope you well, seh!"

CHAPTER XXIV. 

BROUGHT TO BAY. 

One may take his choice between the two, but there is no escaping bothin this life: the creditor--the borrower. Either, but never neither. Narcisse caught step with Richling, and they walked side by side. 

"How I learned to mawch, I billong with a fiah comp'ny, " said theCreole. "We mawch eve'y yeah on the fou'th of Mawch. " He laughedheartily. "Thass a 'ime!--Mawch on the fou'th of Mawch! Thass poetwy, infact, as you may _say_ in a jesting _way_--ha! ha! ha!"

"Yes, and it's truth, besides, " responded the drearier man. 

"Yes!" exclaimed Narcisse, delighted at the unusual coincidence, "at thesame time 'tis the tooth! In fact, why should I tell a lie about such athing like _that_? 'Twould be useless. Pe'haps you may 'ave notiz, Mistoo Itchlin, thad the noozpapehs opine us fiahmen to be the gau'diansof the city. "

"Yes, " responded Richling. "I think Dr. Sevier calls you the Mamelukes, doesn't he? But that's much the same, I suppose. "

"Same thing, " replied the Creole. "We combad the fiah fiend. You finethat building ve'y pitto'esque, Mistoo Itchlin?" He jerked his thumbtoward the prison, that was still pouring forth its clouds of impishwings. "Yes? 'Tis the same with me. But I tell you one thing, MistooItchlin, I assu' you, and you will believe me, I would 'atheh be lock'_out_side of that building than to be lock' _in_side of the same. 'Cause--you know why? 'Tis ve'y 'umid in that building. An thass a thingw'at I believe, Mistoo Itchlin; I believe w'en a building is v'ey 'umidit is not ve'y 'ealthsome. What is yo' opinion consunning that, MistooItchlin?"

"My opinion?" said Richling, with a smile. "My opinion is that theParish Prison would not be a good place to raise a family. "

Narcisse laughed. 

"I thing yo' _o_pinion is co'ect, " he said, flatteringly; then growinginstantly serious, he added, "Yesseh, I think you' about a-'ight, MistooItchlin; faw even if 'twas not too 'umid, 'twould be too confining, infact, --speshly faw child'en. I dunno; but thass my opinion. If you ahp'oceeding at yo' residence, Mistoo Itchlin, I'll juz _con_tinue myp'omenade in yo' society--if not intooding"--

Richling smiled candidly. "Your company's worth all it costs, Narcisse. Excuse me; I always forget your last name--and your first is soappropriate. " It _was_ worth all it cost, though Richling could illafford the purchase. The young Latin's sweet, abysmal ignorance, hisinfantile amiability, his artless ambition, and heathenish innocencestarted the natural gladness of Richling's blood to effervescing anewevery time they met, and, through the sheer impossibility of confidingany of his troubles to the Creole, made him think them smaller andlighter than they had just before appeared. The very light of Narcisse'scountenance and beauty of his form--his smooth, low forehead, his thick, abundant locks, his faintly up-tipped nose and expanded nostrils, hissweet, weak mouth with its impending smile, his beautiful chin andbird's throat, his almond eyes, his full, round arm, and strongthigh--had their emphatic value. 

So now, Richling, a moment earlier borne down by the dreadful shadow ofthe Parish Prison, left it behind him as he walked and laughed andchatted with his borrower. He felt very free with Narcisse, for thereason that would have made a wiser person constrained, --lack of respectfor him. 

"Mistoo Itchlin, you know, " said the Creole, "I like you to call meNahcisse. But at the same time my las' name is Savillot. " He pronouncedit Sav-_veel_-yo. "Thass a somewot Spanish name. That double l got atwist in it. "

"Oh, call it Papilio!" laughed Richling. 

"Papillon!" exclaimed Narcisse, with delight. "The buttehfly! Alla-'ight; you kin juz style me that! 'Cause thass my natu'e, MistooItchlin; I gatheh honey eve'y day fum eve'y opening floweh, as the bahdof A-von wemawk. "

So they went on. 

_Ad infinitum?_ Ah, no! The end was just as plainly in view to both fromthe beginning as it was when, at length, the two stepping across thestreet gutter at the last corner between Richling and home, Narcisselaid his open hand in his companion's elbow, and stopped, saying, asRichling turned and halted with a sudden frown of unwillingness:--

"I tell you 'ow 'tis with me, Mistoo Itchlin, I've p'oject that mannehmyseff; in weading a book--w'en I see a beaucheouz idee, I juz take apencil"--he drew one from his pocket--"check! I check it. So w'en I weadthe same book again, then I take notiz I've check that idee and I lookto see what I check it faw. 'Ow you like that invention, eh?"

"Very simple, " said Richling, with an unpleasant look of expectancy. 

"Mistoo Itchlin, " resumed the other, "do you not fine me impooving in myp'onouncement of yo' lang-widge? I fine I don't use such bad land-widgelike biffo. I am shue you muz' 'ave notiz since some time I always soun'that awer in yo' name. Mistoo Itchlin, will you 'ave that kin'ness tobaw me two-an-a-'alf till the lass of that month?"

Richling looked at him a moment in silence, and then broke into a short, grim laugh. 

"It's all gone. There's no more honey in this flower. " He set his jaw ashe ceased speaking. There was a warm red place on either cheek. 

"Mistoo Itchlin, " said Narcisse, with sudden, quavering fervor, "you kinlen' me two dollahs! I gi'e you my honah the moze sacwed of a gen'leman, Mistoo Itchlin, I nevvah hass you ag'in so long I live!" He extended apacifying hand. "One moment, Mistoo Itchlin, --one moment, --I implo' you, seh! I assu' you, Mistoo Itchlin, I pay you eve'y cent in the worl' onthe laz of that month? Mistoo Itchlin, I am in indignan' circumstan's. Mistoo Itchlin, if you know the distwess--Mistoo Itchlin, if youknow--'ow bad I 'ate to baw!" The tears stood in his eyes. "It nea'ly_kill_ me to b--" Utterance failed him. 

"My friend, " began Richling. 

"Mistoo Itchlin, " exclaimed Narcisse, dashing away the tears andstriking his hand on his heart, "I _am_ yo' fwend, seh!"

Richling smiled scornfully. "Well, my good friend, if you had ever kepta single promise made to me I need not have gone since yesterday withouta morsel of food. "

Narcisse tried to respond. 

"Hush!" said Richling, and Narcisse bowed while Richling spoke on. "Ihaven't a cent to buy bread with to carry home. And whose fault is it?Is it my fault--or is it yours?"

"Mistoo Itchlin, seh"--

"Hush!" cried Richling, again; "if you try to speak before I finish I'llthrash you right here in the street!"

Narcisse folded his arms. Richling flushed and flashed with themortifying knowledge that his companion's behavior was better than hisown. 

"If you want to borrow more money of me find me a chance to earn it!" Heglanced so suddenly at two or three street lads, who were the onlyon-lookers, that they shrank back a step. 

"Mistoo Itchlin, " began Narcisse, once more, in a tone of polite dismay, "you aztonizh me. I assu' you, Mistoo Itchlin"--

Richling lifted his finger and shook it. "Don't you tell me that, sir! Iwill not be an object of astonishment to you! Not to you, sir! Not toyou!" He paused, trembling, his anger and his shame rising together. 

Narcisse stood for a moment, silent, undaunted, the picture of amazedfriendship and injured dignity, then raised his hat with the solemnityof affronted patience and said:--

"Mistoo Itchlin, seein' as 'tis you, a puffic gen'leman, 'oo is notgoin' to 'efuse that satisfagtion w'at a gen'leman, always a-'eady togive a gen'leman, --I bid you--faw the pwesen'--good-evenin', seh!" Hewalked away. 

Richling stood in his tracks dumfounded, crushed. His eyes followed thereceding form of the borrower until it disappeared around a distantcorner, while the eye of his mind looked in upon himself and beheld, with a shame that overwhelmed anger, the folly and the puerility of hisoutburst. The nervous strain of twenty-four hours' fast, without whichhe might not have slipped at all, only sharpened his self-condemnation. He turned and walked to his house, and all the misery that had oppressedhim before he had seen the prison, and all that had come with thatsight, and all this new shame, sank down upon his heart at once. "I amnot a man! I am not a whole man!" he suddenly moaned to himself. "Something is wanting--oh! what is it?"--he lifted his eyes to thesky, --"what is it?"--when in truth, there was little wanting just thenbesides food. 

He passed in at the narrow gate and up the slippery alley. Nearly at itsend was the one window of the room he called home. Just under it--it wassomewhat above his head--he stopped and listened. A step within wasmoving busily here and there, now fainter and now plainer; and a voice, the sweetest on earth to him, was singing to itself in its soft, habitual way. 

He started round to the door with a firmer tread. It stood open. Hehalted on the threshold. There was a small table in the middle of theroom, and there was food on it. A petty reward of his wife's labor hadbrought it there. 

"Mary, " he said, holding her off a little, "don't kiss me yet. "

She looked at him with consternation. He sat down, drew her upon hislap, and told her, in plain, quiet voice, the whole matter. 

"Don't look so, Mary. "

"How?" she asked, in a husky voice and with flashing eye. 

"Don't breathe so short and set your lips. I never saw you look so, Mary, darling!"

She tried to smile, but her eyes filled. 

"If you had been with me, " said John, musingly, "it wouldn't havehappened. "

"If--if"-- Mary sat up as straight as a dart, the corners of hermouth twitching so that she could scarcely shape a word, --"if--if I'dbeen there, I'd have made you _whip_ him!" She flouted her handkerchiefout of her pocket, buried her face in his neck, and sobbed like a child. 

"Oh!" exclaimed the tearful John, holding her away by both shoulders, tossing back his hair and laughing as she laughed, --"Oh! you women!You're all of a sort! You want us men to carry your hymn-books and youriniquities, too!"

She laughed again. 

"Well, of course!"

And they rose and drew up to the board. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

THE DOCTOR DINES OUT. 

On the third day after these incidents, again at the sunset hour, but ina very different part of the town, Dr. Sevier sat down, a guest, atdinner. There were flowers; there was painted and monogrammed china;there was Bohemian glass; there was silver of cunning work with liningsof gold, and damasked linen, and oak of fantastic carving. There wereladies in summer silks and elaborate coiffures; the hostess, small, slender, gentle, alert; another, dark, flashing, Roman, tall; another, ripe but not drooping, who had been beautiful, now, for thirty years;and one or two others. There were jewels; there were sweet odors. Andthere were, also, some good masculine heads: Dr. Sevier's, for instance;and the chief guest's, --an iron-gray, with hard lines in the face, and ascar on the near cheek, --a colonel of the regular army passing throughfrom Florida; and one crown, bald, pink, and shining, encircled by asilken fringe of very white hair: it was the banker who lived in St. Mary street. His wife was opposite. And there was much high-bred grace. There were tall windows thrown wide to make the blaze of gas bearable, and two tall mulattoes in the middle distance bringing in and bearingout viands too sumptuous for any but a French nomenclature. 

It was what you would call a quiet affair; quite out of season, anddifficult to furnish with even this little handful of guests; but it wasa proper and necessary attention to the colonel; conversation not toodull, nor yet too bright for ease, but passing gracefully from oneagreeable topic to another without earnestness, a restless virtue, orfrivolity, which also goes against serenity. Now it touched upon theprospects of young A. B. In the demise of his uncle; now upon theprobable seriousness of C. D. In his attentions to E. F. ; now upon G. 'samusing mishaps during a late tour in Switzerland, which had--"howunfortunately!"--got into the papers. Now it was concerning theadmirable pulpit manners and easily pardoned vocal defects of a certainnew rector. Now it turned upon Stephen A. Douglas's last speech; passedto the questionable merits of a new-fangled punch; and now, assuming aslightly explanatory form from the gentlemen to the ladies, showed whythere was no need whatever to fear a financial crisis--which came soonafterward. 

The colonel inquired after an old gentleman whom he had known in earlierdays in Kentucky. 

"It's many a year since I met him, " he said. "The proudest man I eversaw. I understand he was down here last season. "

"He was, " replied the host, in a voice of native kindness, and with asmile on his high-fed face. "He was; but only for a short time. He wentback to his estate. That is his world. He's there now. "

"It used to be considered one of the finest places in the State, " saidthe colonel. 

"It is still, " rejoined the host. "Doctor, you know him?"

"I think not, " said Dr. Sevier; but somehow he recalled the oldgentleman in button gaiters, who had called on him one evening toconsult him about his sick wife. 

"A good man, " said the colonel, looking amused; "and a superbgentleman. Is he as great a partisan of the church as he used to be?"

"Greater! Favors an established church of America. "

The ladies were much amused. The host's son, a young fellow withsprouting side-whiskers, said he thought he could be quite happy withone of the finest plantations in Kentucky, and let the church go its owngait. 

"Humph!" said the father; "I doubt if there's ever a happy breath drawnon the place. "

"Why, how is that?" asked the colonel, in a cautious tone. 

"Hadn't he heard?" The host was surprised, but spoke low. "Hadn't heheard about the trouble with their only son? Why, he went abroad andnever came back!"

Every one listened. 

"It's a terrible thing, " said the hostess to the ladies nearest her; "noone ever dares ask the family what the trouble is, --they have such odd, exclusive ideas about their matters being nobody's business. All thatcan be known is that they look upon him as worse than dead and goneforever. "

"And who will get the estate?" asked the banker. 

"The two girls. They're both married. "

"They're very much like their father, " said the hostess, smiling withgentle significance. 

"Very much, " echoed the host, with less delicacy. "Their mother is oneof those women who stand in terror of their husband's will. Now, if hewere to die and leave her with a will of her own she would hardly knowwhat to do with it--I mean with her will--or the property either. "

The hostess protested softly against so harsh a speech, and the son, after one or two failures, got in his remark:--

"Maybe the prodigal would come back and be taken in. "

But nobody gave this conjecture much attention. The host was stilltalking of the lady without a will. 

"Isn't she an invalid?" Dr. Sevier had asked. 

"Yes; the trip down here last season was on her account, --for change ofscene. Her health is wretched. "

"I'm distressed that I didn't call on her, " said the hostess; "but theywent away suddenly. My dear, I wonder if they really did encounter theyoung man here?"

"Pshaw!" said the husband, softly, smiling and shaking his head, andturned the conversation. 

In time it settled down with something like earnestness for a fewminutes upon a subject which the rich find it easy to discuss withoutthe least risk of undue warmth. It was about the time when one of thegraciously murmuring mulattoes was replenishing the glasses, that remarkin some way found utterance to this effect, --that the company presentcould congratulate themselves on living in a community where there wasno poor class. 

"Poverty, of course, we see; but there is no misery, or nearly none, "said the ambitious son of the host. 

Dr. Sevier differed with him. That was one of the Doctor's blemishes asa table guest: he would differ with people. 

"There is misery, " he said; "maybe not the gaunt squalor and starvationof London or Paris or New York; the climate does not toleratethat, --stamps it out before it can assume dimensions; but there is atleast misery of that sort that needs recognition and aid from thewell-fed. "

The lady who had been beautiful so many years had somewhat to say; thephysician gave attention, and she spoke:--

"If sister Jane were here, she would be perfectly triumphant to hear youspeak so, Doctor. " She turned to the hostess, and continued: "Jane isquite an enthusiast, you know; a sort of Dorcas, as husband says, modified and readapted. Yes, she is for helping everybody. "

"Whether help is good for them or not, " said the lady's husband, a verystraight and wiry man with a garrote collar. 

"It's all one, " laughed the lady. "Our new rector told her plainly, theother day, that she was making a great mistake; that she ought toconsider whether assistance assists. It was really amusing. Out of thepulpit and off his guard, you know, he lisps a little; and he said sheought to consider whether 'aththithtanth aththithtth. '"

There was a gay laugh at this, and the lady was called a perfect andcruel mimic. 

"'Aththithtanth aththithtth!'" said two or three to their neighbors, andlaughed again. 

"What did your sister say to that?" asked the banker, bending forwardhis white, tonsured head, and smiling down the board. 

"She said she didn't care; that it kept her own heart tender, anyhow. 'My dear madam, ' said he, 'your heart wants strengthening more thansoftening. ' He told her a pound of inner resource was more true help toany poor person than a ton of assistance. "

The banker commended the rector. The hostess, very sweetly, offered herguarantee that Jane took the rebuke in good part. 

"She did, " replied the time-honored beauty; "she tried to profit by it. But husband, here, has offered her a wager of a bonnet against a hatthat the rector will upset her new schemes. Her idea now is to make workfor those whom nobody will employ. "

"Jane, " said the kind-faced host, "really wants to do good for its ownsake. "

"I think she's even a little Romish in her notions, " said Jane's wirybrother-in-law. "I talked to her as plainly as the rector. I told her, 'Jane, my dear, all this making of work for the helpless poor is notworth one-fiftieth part of the same amount of effort spent in teachingand training those same poor to make their labor intrinsicallymarketable. '"

"Yes, " said the hostess; "but while we are philosophizing and offeringadvice so wisely, Jane is at work--doing the best she knows how. Wecan't claim the honor even of making her mistakes. "

"'Tisn't a question of honors to us, madam, " said Dr. Sevier; "it's aquestion of results to the poor. "

The brother-in-law had not finished. He turned to the Doctor. 

"Poverty, Doctor, is an inner condition"--

"Sometimes, " interposed the Doctor. 

"Yes, generally, " continued the brother-in-law, with some emphasis. "Andto give help you must, first of all, 'inquire within'--within yourbeneficiary. "

"Not always, sir, " replied the Doctor; "not if they're sick, forinstance. " The ladies bowed briskly and applauded with their eyes. "Andnot always if they're well, " he added. His last words softened offalmost into soliloquy. 

The banker spoke forcibly:--

"Yes, there are two quite distinct kinds of poverty. One is an accidentof the moment; the other is an inner condition of the individual"--

"Of course it is, " said sister Jane's brother-in-law, who felt it alittle to have been contradicted on the side of kindness by thehard-spoken Doctor. "Certainly! it's a deficiency of inner resourcesor character, and what to do with it is no simple question. "

"That's what I was about to say, " resumed the banker; "at least, whenthe poverty is of that sort. And what discourages kind people is thatthat's the sort we commonly see. It's a relief to meet the other, Doctor, just as it's a relief to a physician to encounter a case ofsimple surgery. "

"And--and, " said the brother-in-law, "what is your rule about plainalmsgiving to the difficult sort?"

"My rule, " replied the banker, "is, don't do it. Debt is slavery, andthere is an ugly kink in human nature that disposes it to be contentwith slavery. No, sir; gift-making and gift-taking are twins of a badblood. " The speaker turned to Dr. Sevier for approval; but, though theDoctor could not gainsay the fraction of a point, he was silent. A ladynear the hostess stirred softly both under and above the board. In herprivate chamber she would have yawned. Yet the banker spoke again:--

"Help the old, I say. You are pretty safe there. Help the sick. But asfor the young and strong, --now, no man could be any poorer than I was attwenty-one, --I say be cautious how you smooth that hard road which isthe finest discipline the young can possibly get. "

"If it isn't _too_ hard, " chirped the son of the host. 

"Too hard? Well, yes, if it isn't too hard. Still I say, hands off; youneedn't turn your back, however. " Here the speaker again singled out Dr. Sevier. "Watch the young man out of one corner of your eye; but make himswim!"

"Ah-h!" said the ladies. 

"No, no, " continued the banker; "I don't say let him drown; but I takeit, Doctor, that your alms, for instance, are no alms if they put thepoor fellow into your debt and at your back. "

"To whom do you refer?" asked Dr. Sevier. Whereat there was a burst oflaughter, which was renewed when the banker charged the physician withhelping so many persons, "on the sly, " that he couldn't tell which onewas alluded to unless the name were given. 

"Doctor, " said the hostess, seeing it was high time the conversationshould take a new direction, "they tell me you have closed your houseand taken rooms at the St. Charles. "

"For the summer, " said the physician. 

As, later, he walked toward that hotel, he went resolving to look up theRichlings again without delay. The banker's words rang in his ears likean overdose of quinine: "Watch the young man out of one corner of youreye. Make him swim. I don't say let him drown. "

"Well, I do watch him, " thought the Doctor. "I've only lost sight of himonce in a while. " But the thought seemed to find an echo against hisconscience, and when it floated back it was: "I've only _caught_ sightof him once in a while. " The banker's words came up again: "Don't putthe poor fellow into your debt and at your back. " "Just what you'vedone, " said conscience. "How do you know he isn't drowned?" He would seeto it. 

While he was still on his way to the hotel he fell in with anacquaintance, a Judge Somebody or other, lately from Washington City. He, also, lodged at the St. Charles. They went together. As theyapproached the majestic porch of the edifice they noticed some confusionat the bottom of the stairs that led up to the rotunda; cabmen and boyswere running to a common point, where, in the midst of a small, compactcrowd, two or three pairs of arms were being alternately thrown aloftand brought down. Presently the mass took a rapid movement up St. Charles street. 

The judge gave his conjecture: "Some poor devil resisting arrest. "

Before he and the Doctor parted for the night they went to the clerk'scounter. 

"No letters for you, Judge; mail failed. Here is a card for you, Doctor. "

The Doctor received it. It had been furnished, blank, by the clerk toits writer. 

 [Illustration: JOHN RICHLING. ]

At the door of his own room, with one hand on the unturned knob and oneholding the card, the Doctor stopped and reflected. The card gave noindication of urgency. Did it? It was hard to tell. He didn't want tolook foolish; morning would be time enough; he would go early nextmorning. 

But at daybreak he was summoned post-haste to the bedside of a lady whohad stayed all summer in New Orleans so as not to be out of this gooddoctor's reach at this juncture. She counted him a dear friend, and insimilar trials had always required close and continual attention. It wasthe same now. 

Dr. Sevier scrawled and sent to the Richlings a line, saying that, ifeither of them was sick, he would come at their call. When the messengerreturned with word from Mrs. Riley that both of them were out, theDoctor's mind was much relieved. So a day and a night passed in which hedid not close his eyes. 

The next morning, as he stood in his office, hat in hand, and a fingerpointing to a prescription on his desk, which he was directing Narcisseto give to some one who would call for it, there came a sudden hurriedpounding of feminine feet on the stairs, a whiff of robes in thecorridor, and Mary Richling rushed into his presence all tears andcries. 

"O Doctor!--O Doctor! O God, my husband! my husband! O Doctor, myhusband is in the Parish Prison!" She sank to the floor. 

The Doctor raised her up. Narcisse hurried forward with his hands fullof restoratives. 

"Take away those things, " said the Doctor, resentfully. "Here!--Mrs. Richling, take Narcisse's arm and go down and get into my carriage. Imust write a short note, excusing myself from an appointment, and then Iwill join you. "

Mary stood alone, turned, and passed out of the office beside the youngCreole, but without taking his proffered arm. Did she suspect him ofhaving something to do with this dreadful affair?

"Missez Witchlin, " said he, as soon as they were out in the corridor, "I dunno if you goin' to billiv me, but I boun' to tell you thatnodwithstanning that yo' 'uzban' is displease' with me, an'nodwithstanning 'e's in that calaboose, I h'always fine 'im a pufficgen'leman--that Mistoo Itchlin, --an' I'll sweah 'e _is_ a gen'leman!"

She lifted her anguished eyes and looked into his beautiful face. Couldshe trust him? His little forehead was as hard as a goat's, but his eyeswere brimming with tears, and his chin quivered. As they reached thehead of the stairs he again offered his arm, and she took it, moaningsoftly, as they descended:--

"O John! O John! O my husband, my husband!"

CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE TROUGH OF THE SEA. 

Narcisse, on receiving his scolding from Richling, had gone to his homein Casa Calvo street, a much greater sufferer than he had appeared tobe. While he was confronting his abaser there had been a momentarycomfort in the contrast between Richling's ill-behavior and his ownself-control. It had stayed his spirit and turned the edge of Richling'ssharp denunciations. But, as he moved off the field, he found himself, at every step, more deeply wounded than even he had supposed. He beganto suffocate with chagrin, and hurried his steps in sheer distress. Hedid not experience that dull, vacant acceptance of universal scorn whichan unresentful coward feels. His pangs were all the more poignantbecause he knew his own courage. 

In his home he went so straight up to the withered little old lady, inthe dingiest of flimsy black, who was his aunt, and kissed her sopassionately, that she asked at once what was the matter. He recountedthe facts, shedding tears of mortification. Her feeling, by the timehe had finished the account, was a more unmixed wrath than his, and, harmless as she was, and wrapped up in her dear, pretty nephew as shewas, she yet demanded to know why such a man shouldn't be called outupon the field of honor. 

"Ah!" cried Narcisse, shrinkingly. She had touched the core of thetumor. One gets a public tongue-lashing from a man concerning moneyborrowed; well, how is one going to challenge him without first handingback the borrowed money? It was a scalding thought! The rotten joistsbeneath the bare scrubbed-to-death floor quaked under Narcisse'sto-and-fro stride. 

"--And then, anyhow!"--he stopped and extended both hands, speaking, ofcourse, in French, --"anyhow, he is the favored friend of Dr. Sevier. IfI hurt him--I lose my situation! If he hurts me--I lose my situation!"

He dried his eyes. His aunt saw the insurmountability of the difficulty, and they drowned feeling in an affectionate glass of green-orangeade. 

"But never mind!" Narcisse set his glass down and drew out his tobacco. He laughed spasmodically as he rolled his cigarette. "You shall see. Thegame is not finished yet. "

Yet Richling passed the next day and night without assassination, andon the second morning afterward, as on the first, went out in quest ofemployment. He and Mary had eaten bread, and it had gone into their lifewithout a remainder either in larder or purse. Richling was all aimless. 

"I do wish I had the _art_ of finding work, " said he. He smiled. "I'llget it, " he added, breaking their last crust in two. "I have the sciencealready. Why, look you, Mary, the quiet, amiable, imperturbable, dignified, diurnal, inexorable haunting of men of influence will get youwhatever you want. "

"Well, why don't you do it, dear? Is there any harm in it? I don't seeany harm in it. Why don't you do that very thing?"

"I'm telling you the truth, " answered he, ignoring her question. "Nothing else short of overtowering merit will get you what you wanthalf so surely. "

"Well, why not do it? Why not?" A fresh, glad courage sparkled in thewife's eyes. 

"Why, Mary, " said John, "I never in my life tried so hard to do anythingelse as I've tried to do that! It sounds easy; but try it! You can'tconceive how hard it is till you try it. I can't _do_ it! I _can't_ doit!"

"_I'd_ do it!" cried Mary. Her face shone. "_I'd_ do it! You'd see if Ididn't! Why, John"--

"All right!" exclaimed he; "you sha'n't talk that way to me for nothing. I'll try it again! I'll begin to-day!"

"Good-by, " he said. He reached an arm over one of her shoulders andaround under the other and drew her up on tiptoe. She threw both hersabout his neck. A long kiss--then a short one. 

"John, something tells me we're near the end of our troubles. "

John laughed grimly. "Ristofalo was to get back to the city to-day:maybe he's going to put us out of our misery. There are two ways fortroubles to end. " He walked away as he spoke. As he passed under thewindow in the alley, its sash was thrown up and Mary leaned out on herelbows. 

"John!"

"Well?"

They looked into each other's eyes with the quiet pleasure of triedlovers, and were silent a moment. She leaned a little farther down, andsaid, softly:--

"You mustn't mind what I said just now. "

"Why, what did you say?"

"That if it were I, I'd do it. I know you can do anything I can do, anda hundred better things besides. "

He lifted his hand to her cheek. "We'll see, " he whispered. She drew in, and he moved on. 

Morning passed. Noon came. From horizon to horizon the sky was oneunbroken blue. The sun spread its bright, hot rays down upon the townand far beyond, ripening the distant, countless fields of the greatdelta, which by and by were to empty their abundance into the city's lapfor the employment, the nourishing, the clothing of thousands. But inthe dusty streets, along the ill-kept fences and shadowless walls of thequiet districts, and on the glaring façades and heated pavements of thecommercial quarters, it seemed only as though the slowly retreatingsummer struck with the fury of a wounded Amazon. Richling was soondust-covered and weary. He had gone his round. There were not many menwhom he could even propose to haunt. He had been to all of them. Dr. Sevier was not one. "Not to-day, " said Richling. 

"It all depends on the way it's done, " he said to himself; "it needn'tdegrade a man if it's done the right way. " It was only by suchphilosophy he had done it at all. Ristofalo he could have hauntedwithout effort; but Ristofalo was not to be found. Richling tramped invain. It may be that all plans were of equal merit just then. Thesummers of New Orleans in those times were, as to commerce, an uttertorpor, and the autumn reawakening was very tardy. It was still tooearly for the stirrings of general mercantile life. The movement of thecotton crop was just beginning to be perceptible; but otherwise almostthe only sounds were from the hammers of craftsmen making the townlarger and preparing it for the activities of days to come. 

The afternoon wore along. Not a cent yet to carry home! Men began toshut their idle shops and go to meet their wives and children abouttheir comfortable dinner-tables. The sun dipped low. Hammers and sawswere dropped into tool-boxes, and painters pulled themselves out oftheir overalls. The mechanic's rank, hot supper began to smoke on itsbare board; but there was one board that was still altogether bare andto which no one hastened. Another day and another chance of life weregone. 

Some men at a warehouse door, the only opening in the building leftunclosed, were hurrying in a few bags of shelled corn. Night wasfalling. At an earlier hour Richling had offered the labor of his handsat this very door and had been rejected. Now, as they rolled in the lasttruck-load, they began to ask for rest with all the gladness he wouldhave felt to be offered toil, singing, --

 "To blow, to blow, some time for to blow. "

They swung the great leaves of the door together as they finished theirchorus, stood grouped outside a moment while the warehouseman turned theresounding lock, and then went away. Richling, who had moved on, watchedthem over his shoulder, and as they left turned back. He was about to dowhat he had never done before. He went back to the door where the bagsof grain had stood. A drunken sailor came swinging along. He stood stilland let him pass; there must be no witnesses. The sailor turned the nextcorner. Neither up nor down nor across the street, nor at dust-begrimed, cobwebbed window, was there any sound or motion. Richling droppedquickly on one knee and gathered hastily into his pocket a little pileof shelled corn that had leaked from one of the bags. 

That was all. No harm to a living soul; no theft; no wrong; but ah! ashe rose he felt a sudden inward lesion. Something broke. It was like aship, in a dream, noiselessly striking a rock where no rock is. Itseemed as though the very next thing was to begin going to pieces. Hewalked off in the dark shadow of the warehouse, half lifted from hisfeet by a vague, wide dismay. And yet he felt no greatness of emotion, but rather a painful want of it, as if he were here and emotion wereyonder, down-street, or up-street, or around the corner. The groundseemed slipping from under him. He appeared to have all at once meltedaway to nothing. He stopped. He even turned to go back. He felt that ifhe should go and put that corn down where he had found it he should feelhimself once more a living thing of substance and emotions. Then itoccurred to him--no, he would keep it, he would take it to Mary; buthimself--he would not touch it; and so he went home. 

Mary parched the corn, ground it fine in the coffee-mill and salted andserved it close beside the candle. "It's good white corn, " she said, laughing. "Many a time when I was a child I used to eat this in myplayhouse and thought it delicious. Didn't you? What! not going to eat?"

Richling had told her how he got the corn. Now he told his sensations. "You eat it, Mary, " he said at the end; "you needn't feel so about it;but if I should eat it I should feel myself a vagabond. It may befoolish, but I wouldn't touch it for a hundred dollars. " A hundreddollars had come to be his synonyme for infinity. 

Mary gazed at him a moment tearfully, and rose, with the dish in herhand, saying, with a smile, "I'd look pretty, wouldn't I!"

She set it aside, and came and kissed his forehead. By and by sheasked:--

"And so you saw no work, anywhere?"

"Oh, yes!" he replied, in a tone almost free from dejection. "I saw anyamount of work--preparations for a big season. I think I certainlyshall pick up something to-morrow--enough, anyhow, to buy something toeat with. If we can only hold out a little longer--just a little--I amsure there'll be plenty to do--for everybody. " Then he began to showdistress again. "I could have got work to-day if I had been a carpenter, or if I'd been a joiner, or a slater, or a bricklayer, or a plasterer, or a painter, or a hod-carrier. Didn't I try that, and was refused?"

"I'm glad of it, " said Mary. 

"'Show me your hands, ' said the man to me. I showed them. 'You won'tdo, ' said he. "

"I'm glad of it!" said Mary, again. 

"No, " continued Richling; "or if I'd been a glazier, or a whitewasher, or a wood-sawyer, or"--he began to smile in a hard, unpleasant way, --"orif I'd been anything but an American gentleman. But I wasn't, and Ididn't get the work!"

Mary sank into his lap, with her very best smile. 

"John, if you hadn't been an American gentleman"--

"We should never have met, " said John. "That's true; that's true. " Theylooked at each other, rejoicing in mutual ownership. 

"But, " said John, "I needn't have been the typical Americangentleman, --completely unfitted for prosperity and totally unequippedfor adversity. "

"That's not your fault, " said Mary. 

"No, not entirely; but it's your calamity, Mary. O Mary! I littlethought"--

She put her hand quickly upon his mouth. His eye flashed and he frowned. 

"Don't do so!" he exclaimed, putting the hand away; then blushed forshame, and kissed her. 

They went to bed. Bread would have put them to sleep. But after a longtime--

"John, " said one voice in the darkness, "do you remember what Dr. Seviertold us?"

"Yes, he said we had no right to commit suicide by starvation. "

"If you don't get work to-morrow, are you going to see him?"

"I am. "

In the morning they rose early. 

During these hard days Mary was now and then conscious of one feelingwhich she never expressed, and was always a little more ashamed of thanprobably she need have been, but which, stifle it as she would, keptrecurring in moments of stress. Mrs. Riley--such was the thought--neednot be quite so blind. It came to her as John once more took hisgood-by, the long kiss and the short one, and went breakfastless away. But was Mrs. Riley as blind as she seemed? She had vision enough toobserve that the Richlings had bought no bread the day before, thoughshe did overlook the fact that emptiness would set them astir beforetheir usual hour of rising. She knocked at Mary's inner door. As itopened a quick glance showed the little table that occupied the centreof the room standing clean and idle. 

"Why, Mrs. Riley!" cried Mary; for on one of Mrs. Riley's large handsthere rested a blue-edged soup-plate, heaping full of the food that goesnearest to the Creole heart--_jambolaya_. There it was, steaming andsmelling, --a delicious confusion of rice and red pepper, chicken legs, ham, and tomatoes. Mike, on her opposite arm, was struggling to lave hissocks in it. 

"Ah!" said Mrs. Riley, with a disappointed lift of the head, "ye'reafter eating breakfast already! And the plates all tleared off. Well, yeair smairt! I knowed Mr. Richlin's taste for jumbalie"--

Mary smote her hands together. "And he's just this instant gone! John!John! Why, he's hardly"-- She vanished through the door, glided downthe alley, leaned out the gate, looking this way and that, trippeddown to this corner and looked--"Oh! oh!"--no John there--back and up tothe other corner--"Oh! which way did John go?" There was none to answer. 

Hours passed; the shadows shortened and shrunk under their objects, crawled around stealthily behind them as the sun swung through thesouth, and presently began to steal away eastward, long and slender. This was the day that Dr. Sevier dined out, as hereinbefore set forth. 

The sun set. Carondelet street was deserted. You could hear your ownfootstep on its flags. In St. Charles street the drinking-saloons andgamblers' drawing-rooms, and the barber-shops, and the show-cases fullof shirt-bosoms and walking-canes, were lighted up. The smell of lemonsand mint grew finer than ever. Wide Canal street, out under the darklingcrimson sky, was resplendent with countless many-colored lamps. From theriver the air came softly, cool and sweet. The telescope man set up hisskyward-pointing cylinder hard by the dark statue of Henry Clay; theconfectioneries were ablaze and full of beautiful life, and every littlewhile a great, empty cotton-dray or two went thundering homeward overthe stony pavements until the earth shook, and speech for the moment wasdrowned. The St. Charles, such a glittering mass in winter nights, stoodout high and dark under the summer stars, with no glow except just inits midst, in the rotunda; and even the rotunda was well-nigh desertedThe clerk at his counter saw a young man enter the great door opposite, and quietly marked him as he drew near. 

Let us not draw the stranger's portrait. If that were a pleasant taskthe clerk would not have watched him. What caught and kept thatfunctionary's eye was that, whatever else might be revealed by thestranger's aspect, --weariness, sickness, hardship, pain, --the confessionwas written all over him, on his face, on his garb, from his hat's crownto his shoe's sole, Penniless! Penniless! Only when he had come quite upto the counter the clerk did not see him at all. 

"Is Dr. Sevier in?"

"Gone out to dine, " said the clerk, looking over the inquirer's head asif occupied with all the world's affairs except the subject in hand. 

"Do you know when he will be back?"

"Ten o'clock. "

The visitor repeated the hour murmurously and looked something dismayed. He tarried. 

"Hem!--I will leave my card, if you please. "

The clerk shoved a little box of cards toward him, from which a pencildangled by a string. The penniless wrote his name and handed it in. Thenhe moved away, went down the tortuous granite stair, and waited in theobscurity of the dimly lighted porch below. The card was to meet thecontingency of the Doctor's coming in by some other entrance. He wouldwatch for him here. 

By and by--he was very weary--he sat down on the stairs. But a porter, with a huge trunk on his back, told him very distinctly that he was inthe way there, and he rose and stood aside. Soon he looked for anotherresting-place. He must get off of his feet somewhere, if only for a fewmoments. He moved back into the deep gloom of the stair-way shadow, andsank down upon the pavement. In a moment he was fast asleep. 

He dreamed that he, too, was dining out. Laughter and merry-making wereon every side. The dishes of steaming viands were grotesque in bulk. There were mountains of fruit and torrents of wine. Strange people of noidentity spoke in senseless vaporings that passed for side-splittingwit, and friends whom he had not seen since childhood appeared inludicrously altered forms and announced impossible events. Every one atelike a Cossack. One of the party, champing like a boar, pushed himangrily, and when he, eating like the rest, would have turned fiercelyon the aggressor, he awoke. 

A man standing over him struck him smartly with his foot. 

"Get up out o' this! Get up! get up!"

The sleeper bounded to his feet. The man who had waked him grasped himby the lapel of his coat. 

"What do you mean?" exclaimed the awakened man, throwing the other offviolently. 

"I'll show you!" replied the other, returning with a rush; but he wasthrown off again, this time with a blow of the fist. 

"You scoundrel!" cried the penniless man, in a rage; "if you touch meagain I'll kill you!"

They leaped together. The one who had proposed to show what he meant wasknocked flat upon the stones. The crowd that had run into the porch maderoom for him to fall. A leather helmet rolled from his head, and thesilver crescent of the police flashed on his breast. The police were notuniformed in those days. 

But he is up in an instant and his adversary is down--backward, on hiselbows. Then the penniless man is up again; they close and struggle, the night-watchman's club falls across his enemy's head blow upon blow, while the sufferer grasps him desperately, with both hands, by thethroat. They tug, they snuffle, they reel to and fro in the yieldingcrowd; the blows grow fainter, fainter; the grip is terrible; whensuddenly there is a violent rupture of the crowd, it closes again, andthen there are two against one, and up sparkling St. Charles street, thestreet of all streets for flagrant, unmolested, well-dressed crime, moves a sight so exhilarating that a score of street lads follow behindand a dozen trip along in front with frequent backward glances: twoofficers of justice walking in grim silence abreast, and between thema limp, torn, hatless, bloody figure, partly walking, partly lifted, partly dragged, past the theatres, past the lawyers' rookeries ofCommercial place, the tenpin alleys, the chop-houses, the bunko shows, and shooting-galleries, on, across Poydras street into the dim opennessbeyond, where glimmer the lamps of Lafayette square and the white marbleof the municipal hall, and just on the farther side of this, with asudden wheel to the right into Hevia street, a few strides there, a turnto the left, stumbling across a stone step and wooden sill into anarrow, lighted hall, and turning and entering an apartment here againat the right. The door is shut; the name is written down; the charge ismade: Vagrancy, assaulting an officer, resisting arrest. An inner dooris opened. 

"What have you got in number nine?" asks the captain in charge. 

"Chuck full, " replies the turnkey. 

"Well, number seven?" These were the numbers of cells. 

"The rats'll eat him up in number seven. "

"How about number ten?"

"Two drunk-and-disorderlies, one petty larceny, and one embezzlement andbreach of trust. "

"Put him in there. "

 * * *

And this explains what the watchman in Marais street could notunderstand, --why Mary Richling's window shone all night long. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

OUT OF THE FRYING-PAN. 

Round goes the wheel forever. Another sun rose up, not a moment hurriedor belated by the myriads of life-and-death issues that cover the earthand wait in ecstasies of hope or dread the passage of time. Punctuallyat ten Justice-in-the-rough takes its seat in the Recorder's Court, and a moment of silent preparation at the desks follows the loudannouncement that its session has begun. The perky clerks and smirkingpettifoggers move apart on tiptoe, those to their respective stations, these to their privileged seats facing the high dais. The loungingpolice slip down from their reclining attitudes on the heel-scraped andwhittled window-sills. The hum of voices among the forlorn humanity thathalf fills the gradually rising, greasy benches behind, allotted towitnesses and prisoners' friends, is hushed. In a little square, railedspace, here at the left, the reporters tip their chairs against thehair-greased wall, and sharpen their pencils. A few tardy visitors, familiar with the place, tiptoe in through the grimy doors, duckingand winking, and softly lifting and placing their chairs, with amock-timorous upward glance toward the long, ungainly personage who, under a faded and tattered crimson canopy, fills the august bench ofmagistracy with its high oaken back. On the right, behind a rude woodenpaling that rises from the floor to the smoke-stained ceiling, are thepeering, bloated faces of the night's prisoners. 

The recorder utters a name. The clerk down in front of him calls italoud. A door in the palings opens, and one of the captives comesforth and stands before the rail. The arresting officer mounts to thewitness-stand and confronts him. The oath is rattled and turned out likedice from a box, and the accusing testimony is heard. It may be thatcounsel rises and cross-examines, if there are witnesses for thedefence. Strange and far-fetched questions, from beginners at the lawor from old blunderers, provoke now laughter, and now the peremptoryprotestations of the court against the waste of time. Yet, in general, a few minutes suffices for the whole trial of a case. 

"You are sure she picked the handsaw up by the handle, are you?" saysthe questioner, frowning with the importance of the point. 

"Yes. "

"And that she coughed as she did so?"

"Well, you see, she kind o'"--

"Yes, or no!"

"No. "

"That's all. " He waves the prisoner down with an air of mightytriumph, turns to the recorder, "trusts it is not necessary to, "etc. , and the accused passes this way or that, according to the fatedecreed, --discharged, sentenced to fine and imprisonment, or committedfor trial before the courts of the State. 

"Order in court!" There is too much talking. Another comes and standsbefore the rail, and goes his way. Another, and another; now a raggedboy, now a half-sobered crone, now a battered ruffian, and now a paintedgirl of the street, and at length one who starts when his name iscalled, as though something had exploded. 

"John Richling!"

He came. 

"Stand there!"

Some one is in the witness-stand, speaking. The prisoner partly hears, but does not see. He stands and holds the rail, with his eyes fixedvacantly on the clerk, who bends over his desk under the seat ofjustice, writing. The lawyers notice him. His dress has been laboriouslygenteel, but is torn and soiled. A detective, with small eyes set closetogether, and a nose like a yacht's rudder, whisperingly calls thenotice of one of these spectators who can see the prisoner's face to thefact that, for all its thinness and bruises, it is not a bad one. Allcan see that the man's hair is fine and waving where it is not mattedwith blood. 

The testifying officer had moved as if to leave the witness-stand, whenthe recorder restrained him by a gesture, and, leaning forward andlooking down upon the prisoner, asked:--

"Have you anything to say to this?"

The prisoner lifted his eyes, bowed affirmatively, and spoke in a low, timid tone. "May I say a few words to you privately?"

"No. "

He dropped his eyes, fumbled with the rail, and, looking up suddenly, said in a stronger voice, "I want somebody to go to my wife--in Prieurstreet. She is starving. This is the third day"--

"We're not talking about that, " said the recorder. "Have you anything tosay against this witness's statement?"

The prisoner looked upon the floor and slowly shook his head. "I nevermeant to break the law. I never expected to stand here. It's like anawful dream. Yesterday, at this time, I had no more idea of this--Ididn't think I was so near it. It's like getting caught in machinery. "He looked up at the recorder again. "I'm so confused"--he frowned anddrew his hand slowly across his brow--"I can hardly--put my wordstogether. I was hunting for work. There is no man in this city whowants to earn an honest living more than I do. "

"What's your trade?"

"I have none. "

"I supposed not. But you profess to have some occupation, I dare say. What's your occupation?"

"Accountant. "

"Hum! you're all accountants. How long have you been out of employment?"

"Six months. "

"Why did you go to sleep under those steps?"

"I didn't intend to go to sleep. I was waiting for a friend to come inwho boards at the St. Charles. "

A sudden laugh ran through the room. "Silence in court!" cried a deputy. 

"Who is your friend?" asked the recorder. 

The prisoner was silent. 

"What is your friend's name?"

Still the prisoner did not reply. One of the group of pettifoggerssitting behind him leaned forward, touched him on the shoulder, andmurmured: "You'd better tell his name. It won't hurt him, and it mayhelp you. " The prisoner looked back at the man and shook his head. 

"Did you strike this officer?" asked the recorder, touching the witness, who was resting on both elbows in the light arm-chair on the right. 

The prisoner made a low response. 

"I don't hear you, " said the recorder. 

"I struck him, " replied the prisoner; "I knocked him down. " The courtofficers below the dais smiled. "I woke and found him spurning me withhis foot, and I resented it. I never expected to be a law-breaker. I"-- He pressed his temples between his hands and was silent. Themen of the law at his back exchanged glances of approval. The case was, to some extent, interesting. 

"May it please the court, " said the man who had before addressed theprisoner over his shoulder, stepping out on the right and speaking verysoftly and graciously, "I ask that this man be discharged. His faultseems so much more to be accident than intention, and his suffering somuch more than his fault"--

The recorder interrupted by a wave of the hand and a preconceived smile:"Why, according to the evidence, the prisoner was noisy and troublesomein his cell all night. "

"O sir, " exclaimed the prisoner, "I was thrown in with thieves anddrunkards! It was unbearable in that hole. We were right on the dampand slimy bricks. The smell was dreadful. A woman in the cell oppositescreamed the whole night. One of the men in the cell tried to take mycoat from me, and I beat him!"

"It seems to me, your honor, " said the volunteer advocate, "the prisoneris still more sinned against than sinning. This is evidently his firstoffence, and"--

"Do you know even that?" asked the recorder. 

"I do not believe his name can be found on any criminal record. I"--

The recorder interrupted once more. He leaned toward the prisoner. 

"Did you ever go by any other name?"

The prisoner was dumb. 

"Isn't John Richling the only name you have ever gone by?" said his newfriend: but the prisoner silently blushed to the roots of his hair andremained motionless. 

"I think I shall have to send you to prison, " said the recorder, preparing to write. A low groan was the prisoner's only response. 

"May it please your honor, " began the lawyer, taking a step forward; butthe recorder waved his pen impatiently. 

"Why, the more is said the worse his case gets; he's guilty of theoffence charged, by his own confession. "

"I am guilty and not guilty, " said the prisoner slowly. "I neverintended to be a criminal. I intended to be a good and useful member ofsociety; but I've somehow got under its wheels. I've missed the wholesecret of living. " He dropped his face into his hands. "O Mary, Mary!why are you my wife?" He beckoned to his counsel. "Come here; comehere. " His manner was wild and nervous. "I want you--I want you to goto Prieur street, to my wife. You know--you know the place, don't you?Prieur street. Ask for Mrs. Riley"--

"Richling, " said the lawyer. 

"No, no! you ask for Mrs. Riley? Ask her--ask her--oh! where are mysenses gone? Ask"--

"May it please the court, " said the lawyer, turning once more to themagistrate and drawing a limp handkerchief from the skirt of his dingyalpaca, with a reviving confidence, "I ask that the accused bedischarged; he's evidently insane. "

The prisoner looked rapidly from counsel to magistrate, and back again, saying, in a low voice, "Oh, no! not that! Oh, no! not that! not that!"

The recorder dropped his eyes upon a paper on the desk before him, and, beginning to write, said without looking up:--

"Parish Prison--to be examined for insanity. "

A cry of remonstrance broke so sharply from the prisoner that even thereporters in their corner checked their energetic streams of lead-pencilrhetoric and looked up. 

"You cannot do that!" he exclaimed. "I am not insane! I'm not evenconfused now! It was only for a minute! I'm not even confused!"

An officer of the court laid his hand quickly and sternly upon his arm;but the recorder leaned forward and motioned him off. The prisonerdarted a single flash of anger at the officer, and then met the eye ofthe justice. 

"If I am a vagrant commit me for vagrancy! I expect no mercy here! Iexpect no justice! You punish me first, and try me afterward, and nowyou can punish me again; but you can't do that!"

"Order in court! Sit down in those benches!" cried the deputies. Thelawyers nodded darkly or blandly, each to each. The one who hadvolunteered his counsel wiped his bald Gothic brow. On the recorder'slips an austere satire played as he said to the panting prisoner:--

"You are showing not only your sanity, but your contempt of court also. "

The prisoner's eyes shot back a fierce light as he retorted:--

"I have no object in concealing either. "

The recorder answered with a quick, angry look; but, instantlyrestraining himself, dropped his glance upon his desk as before, beganagain to write, and said, with his eyes following his pen:--

"Parish Prison, for thirty days. "

The officer grasped the prisoner again and pointed him to the door inthe palings whence he had come, and whither he now returned, without aword or note of distress. 

Half an hour later the dark omnibus without windows, that went by thefacetious name of the "Black Maria" received the convicted ones from thesame street door by which they had been brought in out of the world thenight before. The waifs and vagabonds of the town gleefully formed aline across the sidewalk from the station-house to the van, and countedwith zest the abundant number of passengers that were ushered into itone by one. Heigh ho! In they went: all ages and sorts; both sexes;tried and untried, drunk and sober, new faces and old acquaintances; aman who had been counterfeiting, his wife who had been helping him, andtheir little girl of twelve, who had done nothing. Ho, ho! Bridget Fury!Ha, ha! Howling Lou! In they go: the passive, the violent, all kinds;filling the two benches against the sides, and then the standing room;crowding and packing, until the officer can shut the door only bythrowing his weight against it. 

"Officer, " said one, whose volunteer counsel had persuaded the reportersnot to mention him by name in their thrilling account, --"officer, " saidthis one, trying to pause an instant before the door of the vehicle, "isthere no other possible way to"--

"Get in! get in!"

Two hands spread against his back did the rest; the door clapped to likethe lid of a bursting trunk, the padlock rattled: away they went!

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

"OH, WHERE IS MY LOVE?"

At the prison the scene is repeated in reverse, and the Black Mariapresently rumbles away empty. In that building, whose exterior Narcissefound so picturesque, the vagrant at length finds food. In that questionof food, by the way, another question arose, not as to any degree ofcriminality past or present, nor as to age, or sex, or race, or station;but as to the having or lacking fifty cents. "Four bits" a day was theopen sesame to a department where one could have bedstead and raggedbedding and dirty mosquito-bar, a cell whose window looked down into thefront street, food in variety, and a seat at table with the officers ofthe prison. But those who could not pay were conducted past all thesedelights, along one of several dark galleries, the turnkeys of whichwere themselves convicts, who, by a process of reasoning best understoodamong the harvesters of perquisites, were assumed to be undergoingsentence. 

The vagrant stood at length before a grated iron gate while its boltswere thrown back and it growled on its hinges. What he saw within needsno minute description; it may be seen there still, any day: a large, flagged court, surrounded on three sides by two stories of cells withheavy, black, square doors all a-row and mostly open; about a hundredmen sitting, lying, or lounging about in scanty rags, --some gaunt andfeeble, some burly and alert, some scarred and maimed, some sallow, somered, some grizzled, some mere lads, some old and bowed, --the sentenced, the untried, men there for the first time, men who were oftener in thanout, --burglars, smugglers, house-burners, highwaymen, wife-beaters, wharf-rats, common "drunks, " pickpockets, shop-lifters, stealers ofbread, garroters, murderers, --in common equality and fraternity. In thisresting and refreshing place for vice, this caucus for the projection offuture crime, this ghastly burlesque of justice and the protection ofsociety, there was a man who had been convicted of a dreadful murder ayear or two before, and sentenced to twenty-one years' labor in theState penitentiary. He had got his sentence commuted to confinement inthis prison for twenty-one years of idleness. The captain of the prisonhad made him "captain of the yard. " Strength, ferocity, and a terrificrecord were the qualifications for this honorary office. 

The gate opened. A howl of welcome came from those within, and the newbatch, the vagrant among them, entered the yard. He passed, in his turn, to a tank of muddy water in this yard, washed away the soil and blood ofthe night, and so to the cell assigned him. He was lying face downwardon its pavement, when a man with a cudgel ordered him to rise. Thevagrant sprang to his feet and confronted the captain of the yard, agiant in breadth and stature, with no clothing but a ragged undershirtand pantaloons. 

"Get a bucket and rag and scrub out this cell!"

He flourished his cudgel. The vagrant cast a quick glance at him, andanswered quietly, but with burning face:--

"I'll die first. "

A blow with the cudgel, a cry of rage, a clash together, a push, asledge-hammer fist in the side, another on the head, a fall out intothe yard, and the vagrant lay senseless on the flags. 

When he opened his eyes again, and struggled to his feet, a gentle graspwas on his arm. Somebody was steadying him. He turned his eyes. Ah! whois this? A short, heavy, close-shaven man, with a woollen jacket thrownover one shoulder and its sleeves tied together in a knot under theother. He speaks in a low, kind tone:--

"Steady, Mr. Richling!"

Richling supported himself by a hand on the man's arm, gazed inbewilderment at the gentle eyes that met his, and with a slow gesture ofastonishment murmured, "Ristofalo!" and dropped his head. 

The Italian had just entered the prison from another station-house. Withhis hand still on Richling's shoulder, and Richling's on his, he caughtthe eye of the captain of the yard, who was striding quietly up and downnear by, and gave him a nod to indicate that he would soon adjusteverything to that autocrat's satisfaction. Richling, dazed andtrembling, kept his eyes still on the ground, while Ristofalo moved withhim slowly away from the squalid group that gazed after them. They wenttoward the Italian's cell. 

"Why are you in prison?" asked the vagrant, feebly. 

"Oh, nothin' much--witness in shootin' scrape--talk 'bout aft' while. "

"O Ristofalo, " groaned Richling, as they entered, "my wife! my wife!Send some bread to my wife!"

"Lie down, " said the Italian, pressing softly on his shoulders; butRichling as quietly resisted. 

"She is near here, Ristofalo. You can send with the greatest ease! Youcan do anything, Ristofalo, --if you only choose!"

"Lay down, " said the Italian again, and pressed more heavily. Thevagrant sank limply to the pavement, his companion quickly untying thejacket sleeves from under his own arms and wadding the garment underRichling's head. 

"Do you know what I'm in here for, Ristofalo?" moaned Richling. 

"Don't know, don't care. Yo' wife know you here?" Richling shook hishead on the jacket. The Italian asked her address, and Richling gave it. 

"Goin' tell her come and see you, " said the Italian. "Now, you lay stilllittle while; I be back t'rectly. " He went out into the yard again, pushing the heavy door after him till it stood only slightly ajar, sauntered easily around till he caught sight of the captain of the yard, and was presently standing before him in the same immovable way in whichhe had stood before Richling in Tchoupitoulas street, on the day he hadborrowed the dollar. Those who idly drew around could not hear hiswords, but the "captain's" answers were intentionally audible. Heshook his head in rejection of a proposal. "No, nobody but the prisonerhimself should scrub out the cell. No, the Italian should not do it forhim. The prisoner's refusal and resistance had settled that question. No, the knocking down had not balanced accounts at all. There was morescrubbing to be done. It was scrubbing day. Others might scrub the yardand the galleries, but he should scrub out the tank. And there wereother things, and worse, --menial services of the lowest kind. He shoulddo them when the time came, and the Italian would have to help him too. Never mind about the law or the terms of his sentence. Those counted fornothing there. " Such was the sense of the decrees; the words were suchas may be guessed or left unguessed. The scrubbing of the cell mustcommence at once. The vagrant must make up his mind to suffer. "He hadserved on jury!" said the man in the undershirt, with a final flourishof his stick. "He's got to pay dear for it. "

When Ristofalo returned to his cell, its inmate, after many upstartingsfrom terrible dreams, that seemed to guard the threshold of slumber, hadfallen asleep. The Italian touched him gently, but he roused with a wildstart and stare. 

"Ristofalo, " he said, and fell a-staring again. 

"You had some sleep, " said the Italian. 

"It's worse than being awake, " said Richling. He passed his hands acrosshis face. "Has my wife been here?"

"No. Haven't sent yet. Must watch good chance. Git captain yard ingood-humor first, or else do on sly. " The cunning Italian saw thatanything looking like early extrication would bring new fury uponRichling. He knew _all_ the values of time. "Come, " he added, "mustscrub out cell now. " He ignored the heat that kindled in Richling'seyes, and added, smiling, "You don't do it, I got to do it. "

With a little more of the like kindly guile, and some wise and simplereasoning, the Italian prevailed. Together, without objection from thecaptain of the yard, with many unavailing protests from Richling, whowould now do it alone, and with Ristofalo smiling like a Chinaman at theobscene ribaldry of the spectators in the yard, they scrubbed the cell. Then came the tank. They had to stand in it with the water up to theirknees, and rub its sides with brickbats. Richling fell down twice in thewater, to the uproarious delight of the yard; but his companion helpedhim up, and they both agreed it was the sliminess of the tank's bottomthat was to blame. 

"Soon we get through we goin' to buy drink o' whisky from jailer, " saidRistofalo; "he keep it for sale. Then, after that, kin hire somebody togo to your house; captain yard think we gittin' mo' whisky. "

"Hire?" said Richling. "I haven't a cent in the world. "

"I got a little--few dimes, " rejoined the other. 

"Then why are you here? Why are you in this part of the prison?"

"Oh, 'fraid to spend it. On'y got few dimes. Broke ag'in. "

Richling stopped still with astonishment, brickbat in hand. The Italianmet his gaze with an illuminated smile. "Yes, " he said, "took all I hadwith me to bayou La Fourche. Coming back, slept with some men in boat. One git up in night-time and steal everything. Then was a big fight. Think that what fight was about--about dividing the money. Don't knowsure. One man git killed. Rest run into the swamp and prairie. Officerarrest me for witness. Couldn't trust me to stay in the city. "

"Do you think the one who was killed was the thief?"

"Don't know sure, " said the Italian, with the same sweet face, andfalling to again with his brickbat, --"hope so!"

"Strange place to confine a witness!" said Richling, holding his hand tohis bruised side and slowly straightening his back. 

"Oh, yes, good place, " replied the other, scrubbing away; "git him, inshort time, so he swear to anything. "

It was far on in the afternoon before the wary Ristofalo ventured tooffer all he had in his pocket to a hanger-on of the prison office, togo first to Richling's house, and then to an acquaintance of his own, with messages looking to the procuring of their release. The messengerchose to go first to Ristofalo's friend, and afterward to Mrs. Riley's. It was growing dark when he reached the latter place. Mary was out inthe city somewhere, wandering about, aimless and distracted, in searchof Richling. The messenger left word with Mrs. Riley. Richling had allalong hoped that that good friend, doubtless acquainted with the mostapproved methods of finding a missing man, would direct Mary to thepolice station at the earliest practicable hour. But time had shownthat she had not done so. No, indeed! Mrs. Riley counted herself toobenevolently shrewd for that. While she had made Mary's suspense ofthe night less frightful than it might have been, by surmises thatMr. Richling had found some form of night-work, --watching some pileof freight or some unfinished building, --she had come, secretly, to adifferent conviction, predicated on her own married experiences; and ifMr. Richling had, in a moment of gloom, tipped the bowl a little toohigh, as her dear lost husband, the best man that ever walked, had oftendone, and had been locked up at night to be let out in the morning, why, give him a chance! Let him invent his own little fault-hiding romanceand come home with it. Mary was frantic. She could not be kept in; butMrs. Riley, by prolonged effort, convinced her it was best not to callupon Dr. Sevier until she could be sure some disaster had actuallyoccurred, and sent her among the fruiterers and oystermen in vain searchfor Raphael Ristofalo. Thus it was that the Doctor's morning messengerto the Richlings, bearing word that if any one were sick he would callwithout delay, was met by Mrs. Riley only, and by the reassuringstatement that both of them were out. The later messenger, from the twomen in prison, brought back word of Mary's absence from the house, ofher physical welfare, and Mrs. Riley's promise that Mary should visitthe prison at the earliest hour possible. This would not be till thenext morning. 

While Mrs. Riley was sending this message, Mary, a great distance away, was emerging from the darkening and silent streets of the river frontand moving with timid haste across the broad levee toward the edge ofthe water at the steam-boat landing. In this season of depleted streamsand idle waiting, only an occasional boat lifted its lofty, black, double funnels against the sky here and there, leaving wide stretches ofunoccupied wharf-front between. Mary hurried on, clear out to the greatwharf's edge, and looked forth upon the broad, softly moving harbor. Thelow waters spread out and away, to and around the opposite point, inwide surfaces of glassy purples and wrinkled bronze. Beauty, that joyforever, is sometimes a terror. Was the end of her search somewhereunderneath that fearful glory? She clasped her hands, bent down withdry, staring eyes, then turned again and fled homeward. She swerved oncetoward Dr. Sevier's quarters, but soon decided to see first if therewere any tidings with Mrs. Riley, and so resumed her course. Nightovertook her in streets where every footstep before or behind her madeher tremble; but at length she crossed the threshold of Mrs. Riley'slittle parlor. Mrs. Riley was standing in the door, and retreated a stepor two backward as Mary entered with a look of wild inquiry. 

"Not come?" cried the wife. 

"Mrs. Richlin', " said the widow, hurriedly, "yer husband's alive andfound. "

Mary seized her frantically by the shoulders, crying with high-pitchedvoice:--

"Where is he?--where is he?"

"Ya can't see um till marning, Mrs. Richlin'. "

"Where is he?" cried Mary, louder than before. 

"Me dear, " said Mrs. Riley, "ye kin easy git him out in the marning. "

"Mrs. Riley, " said Mary, holding her with her eye, "is my husband inprison?--O Lord God! O God! my God!"

Mrs. Riley wept. She clasped the moaning, sobbing wife to her bosom, andwith streaming eyes said:--

"Mrs. Richlin', me dear, Mrs. Richlin', me dear, what wad I give to havemy husband this night where your husband is!"

CHAPTER XXIX. 

RELEASE. --NARCISSE. 

As some children were playing in the street before the Parish Prisonnext morning, they suddenly started and scampered toward the prison'sblack entrance. A physician's carriage had driven briskly up to it, ground its wheels against the curb-stone, and halted. If any freshcrumbs of horror were about to be dropped, the children must be there tofeast on them. Dr. Sevier stepped out, gave Mary his hand and then hisarm, and went in with her. A question or two in the prison office, areference to the rolls, and a turnkey led the way through a dark gallerylighted with dimly burning gas. The stench was suffocating. They stoppedat the inner gate. 

"Why didn't you bring him to us?" asked the Doctor, scowling resentfullyat the facetious drawings and legends on the walls, where the dampnessglistened in the sickly light. 

The keeper made a low reply as he shot the bolts. 

"What?" quickly asked Mary. 

"He's not well, " said Dr. Sevier. 

The gate swung open. They stepped into the yard and across it. Theprisoners paused in a game of ball. Others, who were playing cards, merely glanced up and went on. The jailer pointed with his bunch of keysto a cell before him. Mary glided away from the Doctor and darted in. There was a cry and a wail. 

The Doctor followed quickly. Ristofalo passed out as he entered. Richling lay on a rough gray blanket spread on the pavement with theItalian's jacket under his head. Mary had thrown herself down beside himupon her knees, and their arms were around each other's neck. 

"Let me see, Mrs. Richling, " said the physician, touching her on theshoulder. She drew back. Richling lifted a hand in welcome. The Doctorpressed it. 

"Mrs. Richling, " he said, as they faced each other, he on one knee, sheon both. He gave her a few laconic directions for the sick man's bettercomfort. "You must stay here, madam, " he said at length; "this manRistofalo will be ample protection for you; and I will go at once andget your husband's discharge. " He went out. 

In the office he asked for a seat at a desk. As he finished using it heturned to the keeper and asked, with severe face:--

"What do you do with sick prisoners here, anyway?"

The keeper smiled. 

"Why, if they gits right sick, the hospital wagon comes and takes 'em tothe Charity Hospital. "

"Umhum!" replied the Doctor, unpleasantly, --"in the same wagon they usefor a case of scarlet fever or small-pox, eh?"

The keeper, with a little resentment in his laugh, stated that he wouldbe eternally lost if he knew. 

"_I_ know, " remarked the Doctor. "But when a man is only a littlesick, --according to your judgment, --like that one in there now, he istreated here, eh?"

The keeper swelled with a little official pride. His tone was boastful. 

"We has a complete dispenisary in the prison, " he said. 

"Yes? Who's your druggist?" Dr. Sevier was in his worst inquisitorialmood. 

"One of the prisoners, " said the keeper. 

The Doctor looked at him steadily. The man, in the blackness of hisignorance, was visibly proud of this bit of economy and convenience. 

"How long has he held this position?" asked the physician. 

"Oh, a right smart while. He was sentenced for murder, but he's waitingfor a new trial. "

"And he has full charge of all the drugs?" asked the Doctor, with acheerful smile. 

"Yes, sir. " The keeper was flattered. 

"Poisons and all, I suppose, eh?" pursued the Doctor. 

"Everything. "

The Doctor looked steadily and silently upon the officer, and tore andfolded and tore again into small bits the prescription he had written. Amoment later the door of his carriage shut with a smart clap and itswheels rattled away. There was a general laugh in the office, heavilyspiced with maledictions. 

"I say, Cap', what d'you reckon he'd 'a' said if he'd 'a' seen thewomen's department?"

 * * *

In those days recorders had the power to release prisoners sentenced bythem when in their judgment new information justified such action. YetDr. Sevier had a hard day's work to procure Richling's liberty. The sunwas declining once more when a hack drove up to Mrs. Riley's door withJohn and Mary in it, and Mrs. Riley was restrained from laughing andcrying only by the presence of the great Dr. Sevier and a romanticItalian stranger by the captivating name of Ristofalo. Richling, withrepeated avowals of his ability to walk alone, was helped into the housebetween these two illustrious visitors, Mary hurrying in ahead, and Mrs. Riley shutting the street door with some resentment of manner towardthe staring children who gathered without. Was there anything surprisingin the fact that eminent persons should call at her house?

When there was time for greetings she gave her hand to Dr. Sevier andasked him how he found himself. To Ristofalo she bowed majestically. Shenoticed that he was handsome and muscular. 

At different hours the next day the same two visitors called. Also thesecond day after. And the third. And frequently afterward. 

 * * *

Ristofalo regained his financial feet almost, as one might say, at asingle hand-spring. He amused Mary and John and Mrs. Riley almost beyondlimit with his simple story of how he did it. 

"Ye'd better hurry and be getting up out o' that sick bed, Mr. Richlin', " said the widow, in Ristofalo's absence, "or that I-talianrascal'll be making himself entirely too agree'ble to yer lady here. Ha!ha! It's _she_ that he's a-comin' here to see. "

Mrs. Riley laughed again, and pointed at Mary and tossed her head, notknowing that Mary went through it all over again as soon as Mrs. Rileywas out of the room, to the immense delight of John. 

"And now, madam, " said Dr. Sevier to Mary, by and by, "let it beunderstood once more that even independence may be carried to a viciousextreme, and that"--he turned to Richling, by whose bed he stood--"youand your wife will not do it again. You've had a narrow escape. Is itunderstood?"

"We'll try to be moderate, " replied the invalid, playfully. 

"I don't believe you, " said the Doctor. 

And his scepticism was wise. He continued to watch them, and at lengthenjoyed the sight of John up and out again with color in his cheeks andthe old courage--nay, a new and a better courage--in his eyes. 

Said the Doctor on his last visit, "Take good care of your husband, mychild. " He held the little wife's hand a moment, and gazed out of Mrs. Riley's front door upon the western sky. Then he transferred his gaze toJohn, who stood, with his knee in a chair, just behind her. He looked atthe convalescent with solemn steadfastness. The husband smiled broadly. 

"I know what you mean. I'll try to deserve her. "

The Doctor looked again into the west. 

"Good-by. "

Mary tried playfully to retort, but John restrained her, and when shecontrived to utter something absurdly complimentary of her husband hewas her only hearer. 

They went back into the house, talking of other matters. Somethingturned the conversation upon Mrs. Riley, and from that subject it seemedto pass naturally to Ristofalo. Mary, laughing and talking softly asthey entered their room, called to John's recollection the Italian'saccount of how he had once bought a tarpaulin hat and a cottonade shirtof the pattern called a "jumper, " and had worked as a deck-hand inloading and unloading steam-boats. It was so amusingly sensible to puton the proper badge for the kind of work sought. Richling mused. Many adollar he might have earned the past summer, had he been as ingeniouslywise, he thought. 

"Ristofalo is coming here this evening, " said he, taking a seat in thealley window. 

Mary looked at him with sidelong merriment. The Italian was coming tosee Mrs. Riley. 

"Why, John, " whispered Mary, standing beside him, "she's nearly tenyears older than he is!"

But John quoted the old saying about a man's age being what he feels, and a woman's what she looks. 

"Why, --but--dear, it is scarcely a fortnight since she declared nothingcould ever induce"--

"Let her alone, " said John, indulgently. "Hasn't she said half-a-dozentimes that it isn't good for woman to be alone? A widow's a woman--andyou never disputed it. "

"O John, " laughed Mary, "for shame! You know I didn't mean that. Youknow I never could mean that. "

And when John would have maintained his ground she besought him not tojest in that direction, with eyes so ready for tears that he desisted. 

"I only meant to be generous to Mrs. Riley, " he said. 

"I know it, " said Mary, caressingly; "you're always on the generous sideof everything. "

She rested her hand fondly on his arm, and he took it into his own. 

One evening the pair were out for that sunset walk which their youngblood so relished, and which often led them, as it did this time, acrossthe wide, open commons behind the town, where the unsettled streets wereturf-grown, and toppling wooden lamp-posts threatened to fall into thewide, cattle-trodden ditches. 

"Fall is coming, " said Mary. 

"Let it come!" exclaimed John; "it's hung back long enough. "

He looked about with pleasure. On every hand the advancing season wasgiving promise of heightened activity. The dark, plumy foliage of thechina trees was getting a golden edge. The burnished green of the greatmagnolias was spotted brilliantly with hundreds of bursting cones, redwith their pendent seeds. Here and there, as the sauntering pair cameagain into the region of brick sidewalks, a falling cone would now andthen scatter its polished coral over the pavement, to be gathered bylittle girls for necklaces, or bruised under foot, staining the walkwith its fragrant oil. The ligustrums bent low under the dragging weightof their small clustered berries. The oranges were turning. In the wet, choked ditches along the interruptions of pavement, where John followedMary on narrow plank footways, bloomed thousands of little unrenownedasteroid flowers, blue and yellow, and the small, pink spikes of thewater pepper. It wasn't the fashionable habit in those days, but Maryhad John gather big bunches of this pretty floral mob, and filled herroom with them--not Mrs. Riley's parlor--whoop, no! Weeds? Not if Mrs. Riley knew herself. 

So ran time apace. The morning skies were gray monotones, and theevening gorgeous reds. The birds had finished their summer singing. Sometimes the alert chirp of the cardinal suddenly smote the ear fromsome neighboring tree; but he would pass, a flash of crimson, from onegarden to the next, and with another chirp or two be gone for days. Thenervy, unmusical waking cry of the mocking-bird was often the firstdaybreak sound. At times a myriad downy seed floated everywhere, nowsoftly upward, now gently downward, and the mellow rays of sunset turnedit into a warm, golden snow-fall. By night a soft glow from distantburning prairies showed the hunters were afield; the call of unseen wildfowl was heard overhead, and--finer to the waiting poor man's ear thanall other sounds--came at regular intervals, now from this quarter andnow from that, the heavy, rushing blast of the cotton compress, tellingthat the flood tide of commerce was setting in. 

Narcisse surprised the Richlings one evening with a call. They triedvery hard to be reserved, but they were too young for that task to beeasy. The Creole had evidently come with his mind made up to takeunresentfully and override all the unfriendliness they might choose toshow. His conversation never ceased, but flitted from subject to subjectwith the swift waywardness of a humming-bird. It was remarked by Mary, leaning back in one end of Mrs. Riley's little sofa, that "summerdresses were disappearing, but that the girls looked just as sweet intheir darker colors as they had appeared in midsummer white. HadNarcisse noticed? Probably he didn't care for"--

"Ho! I notiz them an' they notiz me! An' thass one thing I 'ave notizabout young ladies: they ah juz like those bird'; in summeh lookin'cool, in winteh waum. I 'ave notiz that. An' I've notiz anotheh thingwhich make them juz like those bird'. They halways know if a man islookin', an' they halways make like they don't see 'im! I would like to'ite an i'ony about that--a lill i'ony--in the he'oic measuh. You likethat he'oic measuh, Mizzez Witchlin'?"

As he rose to go he rolled a cigarette, and folded the end in with thelong nail of his little finger. 

"Mizzez Witchlin', if you will allow me to light my ciga'ette fum yo'lamp--I can't use my sun-glass at night, because the sun is nod theh. But, the sun shining, I use it. I 'ave adop' that method since lately. "

"You borrow the sun's rays, " said Mary, with wicked sweetness. 

"Yes; 'tis cheapeh than matches in the longue 'un. "

"You have discovered that, I suppose, " remarked John. 

"Me? The sun-glass? No. I believe Ahchimides invend that, in fact. An'yet, out of ten thousan' who use the sun-glass only a few can account'ow tis done. 'Ow did you think that that's my invention, MistooItchlin? Did you know that I am something of a chimist? I can tu'nlitmus papeh 'ed by juz dipping it in SO_3HO. Yesseh. "

"Yes, " said Richling, "that's one thing that I have noticed, that you'revery fertile in devices. "

"Yes, " echoed Mary, "I noticed that, the first time you ever came to seeus. I only wish Mr. Richling was half as much so. "

She beamed upon her husband. Narcisse laughed with pure pleasure. 

"Well, I am compel' to say you ah co'ect. I am continually makin' somediscove'ies. 'Necessity's the motheh of inventions. ' Now thass anothehthing I 'ave notiz--about that month of Octobeh: it always come befo'you think it's comin'. I 'ave notiz that about eve'y month. Now, to-daywe ah the twennieth Octobeh! Is it not so?" He lighted his cigarette. "You ah compel' to co'obo'ate me. "

CHAPTER XXX. 

LIGHTING SHIP. 

Yes, the tide was coming in. The Richlings' bark was still on the sands, but every now and then a wave of promise glided under her. She mightfloat, now, any day. Meantime, as has no doubt been guessed, she washeld on an even keel by loans from the Doctor. 

"Why you don't advertise in papers?" asked Ristofalo. 

"Advertise? Oh, I didn't think it would be of any use. I advertised awhole week, last summer. "

"You put advertisement in wrong time and keep it out wrong time, " saidthe Italian. 

"I have a place in prospect, now, without advertising, " said Richling, with an elated look. 

It was just here that a new mistake of Richling's emerged. He had comeinto contact with two or three men of that wretched sort that indulgethe strange vanity of keeping others waiting upon them by promises ofemployment. He believed them, liked them heartily because they saidnothing about references, and gratefully distended himself with theirhusks, until Ristofalo opened his eyes by saying, when one of these menhad disappointed Richling the third time:--

"Business man don't promise but once. "

"You lookin' for book-keeper's place?" asked the Italian at anothertime. "Why don't dress like a book-keeper?"

"On borrowed money?" asked Richling, evidently looking upon thatquestion as a poser. 

"Yes. "

"Oh, no, " said Richling, with a smile of superiority; but the other onesmiled too, and shook his head. 

"Borrow mo', if you don't. "

Richling's heart flinched at the word. He had thought he was giving histrue reason; but he was not. A foolish notion had floated, like a grainof dust, into the over-delicate wheels of his thought, --that men wouldemploy him the more readily if he looked needy. His hat was unbrushed, his shoes unpolished; he had let his beard come out, thin and untrimmed;his necktie was faded. He looked battered. When the Italian's gentlewarning showed him this additional mistake on top of all his others hewas dismayed at himself; and when he sat down in his room and countedthe cost of an accountant's uniform, so to speak, the remains of Dr. Sevier's last loan to him was too small for it. Thereupon he committedone error more, --but it was the last. He sunk his standard, and beganagain to look for service among industries that could offer employmentonly to manual labor. He crossed the river and stirred about among thedry-docks and ship-carpenters' yards of the suburb Algiers. But he couldneither hew spars, nor paint, nor splice ropes. He watched a man half aday calking a boat; then he offered himself for the same work, did itfairly, and earned half a day's wages. But then the boat was done, andthere was no other calking at the moment along the whole harbor front, except some that was being done on a ship by her own sailors. 

"John, " said Mary, dropping into her lap the sewing that hardly paid forher candle, "isn't it hard to realize that it isn't twelve months sinceyour hardships commenced? They _can't_ last much longer, darling. "

"I know that, " said John. "And I know I'll find a place presently, andthen we'll wake up to the fact that this was actually less than a yearof trouble in a lifetime of love. "

"Yes, " rejoined Mary, "I know your patience will be rewarded. "

"But what I want is work now, Mary. The bread of idleness is getting_too_ bitter. But never mind; I'm going to work to-morrow;--never mindwhere. It's all right. You'll see. "

She smiled, and looked into his eyes again with a confession ofunreserved trust. The next day he reached the--what shall we say?--bigend of his last mistake. What it was came out a few mornings after, whenhe called at Number 5 Carondelet street. 

"The Doctah is not in pwesently, " said Narcisse. "He ve'y hawdly comesin so soon as that. He's living home again, once mo', now. He's ve'yun'estless. I tole 'im yistiddy, 'Doctah, I know juz 'ow you feel, seh;'tis the same way with myseff. You ought to git ma'ied!'"

"Did he say he would?" asked Richling. 

"Well, you know, Mistoo Itchlin, so the povvub says, 'Silent giveconsense. ' He juz look at me--nevvah said a word--ha! he couldn'! Younot lookin' ve'y well, Mistoo Itchlin. I suppose 'tis that waumweatheh. "

"I suppose it is; at least, partly, " said Richling, and added nothingmore, but looked along and across the ceiling, and down at a skeleton ina corner, that was offering to shake hands with him. He was at a losshow to talk to Narcisse. Both Mary and he had grown a little ashamed oftheir covert sarcasms, and yet to leave them out was bread withoutyeast, meat without salt, as far as their own powers of speech wereconcerned. 

"I thought, the other day, " he began again, with an effort, "when itblew up cool, that the warm weather was over. "

"It seem to be finishin' ad the end, I think, " responded the Creole. "Ithink, like you, that we 'ave 'ad too waum weatheh. Me, I like thatweatheh to be cole, me. I halways weigh the mose in cole weatheh. I gainflesh, in fact. But so soon 'tis summeh somethin' become of it. I dunnoif 'tis the fault of my close, but I reduct in summeh. Speakin' ofclose, Mistoo Itchlin, --egscuse me if 'tis a fair question, --w'at wasyo' objec' in buyin' that tawpaulin hat an' jacket lass week ad thatsto' on the levee? You din know I saw you, but I juz 'appen to see you, in fact. " (The color rose in Richling's face, and Narcisse pressed onwithout allowing an answer. ) "Well, thass none o' my biziness, ofco'se, but I think you lookin' ve'y bad, Mistoo Itchlin"-- He stoppedvery short and stepped with dignified alacrity to his desk, for Dr. Sevier's step was on the stair. 

The Doctor shook hands with Richling and sank into the chair at hisdesk. "Anything turned up yet, Richling?"

"Doctor, " began Richling, drawing his chair near and speaking low. 

"Good-mawnin', Doctah, " said Narcisse, showing himself with a gracefulflourish. 

The Doctor nodded, then turned again to Richling. "You were saying"--

"I 'ope you well, seh, " insisted the Creole, and as the Doctor glancedtoward him impatiently, repeated the sentiment, "'Ope you well, seh. "

The Doctor said he was, and turned once more to Richling. Narcissebowed away backward and went to his desk, filled to the eyes with fiercesatisfaction. He had made himself felt. Richling drew his chair nearerand spoke low:--

"If I don't get work within a day or two I shall have to come to you formoney. "

"That's all right, Richling. " The Doctor spoke aloud; Richling answeredlow. 

"Oh, no, Doctor, it's all wrong! Indeed, I can't do it any more unlessyou will let me earn the money. "

"My dear sir, I would most gladly do it; but I have nothing that youcan do. "

"Yes, you have, Doctor. "

"What is it?"

"Why, it's this: you have a slave boy driving your carriage. "

"Well?"

"Give him some other work, and let me do that. "

Dr. Sevier started in his seat. "Richling, I can't do that. I shouldruin you. If you drive my carriage"--

"Just for a time, Doctor, till I find something else. "

"No! no! If you drive my carriage in New Orleans you'll never doanything else. "

"Why, Doctor, there are men standing in the front ranks to-day, who"--

"Yes, yes, " replied the Doctor, impatiently, "I know, --who began withmenial labor; but--I can't explain it to you, Richling, but you're notof the same sort; that's all. I say it without praise or blame; you musthave work adapted to your abilities. "

"My abilities!" softly echoed Richling. Tears sprang to his eyes. Heheld out his open palms, --"Doctor, look there. " They were lacerated. Hestarted to rise, but the Doctor prevented him. 

"Let me go, " said Richling, pleadingly, and with averted face. "Let mego. I'm sorry I showed them. It was mean and foolish and weak. Let mego. "

But Dr. Sevier kept a hand on him, and he did not resist. The Doctortook one of the hands and examined it. "Why, Richling, you've beenhandling freight!"

"There was nothing else. "

"Oh, bah!"

"Let me go, " whispered Richling. But the Doctor held him. 

"You didn't do this on the steam-boat landing, did you, Richling?"

The young man nodded. The Doctor dropped the hand and looked upon itsowner with set lips and steady severity. When he spoke he said:--

"Among the negro and green Irish deck-hands, and under the oaths andblows of steam-boat mates! Why, Richling!" He turned half away in hisrotary chair with an air of patience worn out. 

"You thought I had more sense, " said Richling. 

The Doctor put his elbows upon his desk and slowly drew his face upwardthrough his hands. "Mr. Richling, what is the matter with you?" Theygazed at each other a long moment, and then Dr. Sevier continued: "Yourtrouble isn't want of sense. I know that very well, Richling. " His voicewas low and became kind. "But you don't get the use of the sense youhave. It isn't available. " He bent forward: "Some men, Richling, carrytheir folly on the surface and their good sense at the bottom, "--hejerked his thumb backward toward the distant Narcisse, and added, with astealthy frown, --"like that little fool in yonder. He's got plenty ofsense, but he doesn't load any of it on deck. Some men carry their senseon top and their folly down below"--

Richling smiled broadly through his dejection, and touched his ownchest. "Like this big fool here, " he said. 

"Exactly, " said Dr. Sevier. "Now you've developed a defect of thememory. Your few merchantable qualities have been so long out of themarket, and you've suffered such humiliation under the pressure ofadversity, that you've--you've done a very bad thing. "

"Say a dozen, " responded Richling, with bitter humor. But the Doctorswung his head in resentment of the levity. 

"One's enough. You've allowed yourself to forget your true value. "

"I'm worth whatever I'll bring. "

The Doctor tossed his head in impatient disdain. 

"Pshaw! You'll never bring what you're worth any more than some men areworth what they bring. You don't know how. You never will know. "

"Well, Doctor, I do know that I'm worth more than I ever was before. I've learned a thousand things in the last twelvemonth. If I can onlyget a chance to prove it!" Richling turned red and struck his knee withhis fist. 

"Oh, yes, " said Dr. Sevier; "that's your sense, on top. And then yougo--in a fit of the merest impatience, as I do suspect--and offeryourself as a deck-hand and as a carriage-driver. That's your folly, atthe bottom. What ought to be done to such a man?" He gave a low, harshlaugh. Richling dropped his eyes. A silence followed. 

"You say all you want is a chance, " resumed the Doctor. 

"Yes, " quickly answered Richling, looking up. 

"I'm going to give it to you. " They looked into each other's eyes. TheDoctor nodded. "Yes, sir. " He nodded again. 

"Where did you come from, Richling, --when you came to New Orleans, --youand your wife? Milwaukee?"

"Yes. "

"Do your relatives know of your present condition?"

"No. "

"Is your wife's mother comfortably situated?"

"Yes. "

"Then I'll tell you what you must do. "

"The only thing I can't do, " said Richling. 

"Yes, you can. You must. You must send Mrs. Richling back to hermother. "

Richling shook his head. 

"Well, " said the Doctor, warmly, "I say you must. I will lend you thepassage-money. "

Richling's eye kindled an instant at the Doctor's compulsory tone, buthe said, gently:--

"Why, Doctor, Mary will never consent to leave me. "

"Of course she will not. But you must make her do it! That's whatyou must do. And when that's done then you must start out and gosystematically from door to door, --of business houses, I mean, --offeringyourself for work befitting your station--ahem!--station, I say--andqualifications. I will lend you money to live on until you findpermanent employment. Now, now, don't get alarmed! I'm not going to helpyou any more than I absolutely must!"

"But, Doctor, how can you expect"-- But the Doctor interrupted. 

"Come, now, none of that! You and your wife are brave; I must say thatfor you. She has the courage of a gladiator. You can do this if youwill. "

"Doctor, " said Richling, "you are the best of friends; but, you know, the fact is, Mary and I--well, we're still lovers. "

"Oh!" The Doctor turned away his head with fresh impatience. Richlingbit his lip, but went on:--

"We can bear anything on earth together; but we have sworn to staytogether through better and worse"--

"Oh, pf-f-f-f!" said the doctor, closing his eyes and swinging his headaway again. 

"--And we're going to do it, " concluded Richling. 

"But you can't do it!" cried the Doctor, so loudly that Narcisse stoodup on the rungs of his stool and peered. 

"We can't separate. "

Dr. Sevier smote the desk and sprang to his feet:--

"Sir, you've got to do it! If you continue in this way, you'll die. You'll die, Mr. Richling--both of you! You'll die! Are you going to letMary die just because she's brave enough to do it?" He sat down againand busied himself, nervously placing pens on the pen-rack, the stopperin the inkstand, and the like. 

Many thoughts ran through Richling's mind in the ensuing silence. His eyes were on the floor. Visions of parting; of the greatemptiness that would be left behind; the pangs and yearnings thatmust follow, --crowded one upon another. One torturing realizationkept ever in the front, --that the Doctor had a well-earned right toadvise, and that, if his advice was to be rejected, one must show goodand sufficient cause for rejecting it, both in present resources andin expectations. The truth leaped upon him and bore him down as it neverhad done before, --the truth which he had heard this very Dr. Sevierproclaim, --that debt is bondage. For a moment he rebelled against it;but shame soon displaced mutiny, and he accepted this part, also, ofhis lot. At length he rose. 

"Well?" said Dr. Sevier. 

"May I ask Mary?"

"You will do what you please, Mr. Richling. " And then, in a kindervoice, the Doctor added, "Yes; ask her. "

They moved together to the office door. The Doctor opened it, and theysaid good-by, Richling trying to drop a word of gratitude, and theDoctor hurriedly ignoring it. 

The next half hour or more was spent by the physician in receiving, hearing, and dismissing patients and their messengers. By and by noothers came. The only audible sound was that of the Doctor's paper-knifeas it parted the leaves of a pamphlet. He was thinking over the lateinterview with Richling, and knew that, if this silence were not sooninterrupted from without, he would have to encounter his book-keeper, who had not spoken since Richling had left. Presently the issue came. 

"Dr. Seveeah, "--Narcisse came forward, hat in hand, --"I dunno 'ow 'tis, but Mistoo Itchlin always wemine me of that povvub, 'Ully to bed, ullyto 'ise, make a pusson to be 'ealthy an' wealthy an' wise. '"

"I don't know how it is, either, " grumbled the Doctor. 

"I believe thass not the povvub I was thinking. I am acquainting myseffwith those povvubs; but I'm somewhat gween in that light, in fact. Well, Doctah, I'm goin' ad the--shoemakeh. I burs' my shoe yistiddy. I wasjuz"--

"Very well, go. "

"Yesseh; and from the shoemakeh I'll go"--

The Doctor glanced darkly over the top of the pamphlet. 

"--Ad the bank; yesseh, " said Narcisse, and went. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

AT LAST. 

Mary, cooking supper, uttered a soft exclamation of pleasure and reliefas she heard John's step under the alley window and then at the door. She turned, with an iron spoon in one hand and a candlestick in theother, from the little old stove with two pot-holes, where she had beenstirring some mess in a tin pan. 

"Why, you're"--she reached for a kiss--"real late!"

"I could not come any sooner. " He dropped into a chair at the table. 

"Busy?"

"No; no work to-day. "

Mary lifted the pan from the stove, whisked it to the table, and blewher fingers. 

"Same subject continued, " she said laughingly, pointing with her spoonto the warmed-over food. 

Richling smiled and nodded, and then flattened his elbows out on thetable and hid his face in them. 

This was the first time he had ever lingered away from his wife when heneed not have done so. It was the Doctor's proposition that had kept himback. All day long it had filled his thoughts. He felt its wisdom. Itssheer practical value had pierced remorselessly into the deepestconvictions of his mind. But his heart could not receive it. 

"Well, " said Mary, brightly, as she sat down at the table, "maybeyou'll have better luck to-morrow. Don't you think you may?"

"I don't know, " said John, straightening up and tossing back his hair. He pushed a plate up to the pan, supplied and passed it. Then he helpedhimself and fell to eating. 

"Have you seen Dr. Sevier to-day?" asked Mary, cautiously, seeing herhusband pause and fall into distraction. 

He pushed his plate away and rose. She met him in the middle of theroom. He extended both hands, took hers, and gazed upon her. How couldhe tell? Would she cry and lament, and spurn the proposition, and fallupon him with a hundred kisses? Ah, if she would! But he saw that DoctorSevier, at least, was confident she would not; that she would have, instead, what the wife so often has in such cases, the strongest love, it may be, but also the strongest wisdom for that particular sort ofissue. Which would she do? Would she go, or would she not?

He tried to withdraw his hands, but she looked beseechingly into hiseyes and knit her fingers into his. The question stuck upon his lips andwould not be uttered. And why should it be? Was it not cowardice toleave the decision to her? Should not he decide? Oh! if she would onlyrebel! But would she? Would not her utmost be to give good reasons inher gentle, inquiring way why he should not require her to leave him?And were there any such? No! no! He had racked his brain to find so muchas one, all day long. 

"John, " said Mary, "Dr. Sevier's been talking to you?"

"Yes. "

"And he wants you to send me back home for a while?"

"How do you know?" asked John, with a start. 

"I can read it in your face. " She loosed one hand and laid it upon hisbrow. 

"What--what do you think about it, Mary?"

Mary, looking into his eyes with the face of one who pleads for mercy, whispered, "He's right, " then buried her face in his bosom and wept likea babe. 

"I felt it six months ago, " she said later, sitting on her husband'sknee and holding his folded hands tightly in hers. 

"Why didn't you say so?" asked John. 

"I was too selfish, " was her reply. 

When, on the second day afterward, they entered the Doctor's officeRichling was bright with that new hope which always rises up beside anew experiment, and Mary looked well and happy. The Doctor wrote them aletter of introduction to the steam-boat agent. 

"You're taking a very sensible course, " he said, smoothing theblotting-paper heavily over the letter. "Of course, you think it's hard. It is hard. But distance needn't separate you. "

"It can't, " said Richling. 

"Time, " continued the Doctor, --"maybe a few months, --will bring youtogether again, prepared for a long life of secure union; and then, whenyou look back upon this, you'll be proud of your courage and good sense. And you'll be"-- He enclosed the note, directed the envelope, and, pausing with it still in his hand, turned toward the pair. They rose up. His rare, sick-room smile hovered about his mouth, and he said:--

"You'll be all the happier--all three of you. "

The husband smiled. Mary colored down to the throat and looked up on thewall, where Harvey was explaining to his king the circulation of theblood. There was quite a pause, neither side caring to utter the firstadieu. 

"If a physician could call any hour his own, " presently said the Doctor, "I should say I would come down to the boat and see you off. But I mightfail in that. Good-by!"

"Good-by, Doctor!"--a little tremor in the voice, --"take care of John. "

The tall man looked down into the upturned blue eyes. 

"Good-by!" He stooped toward her forehead, but she lifted her lips andhe kissed them. So they parted. 

The farewell with Mrs. Riley was mainly characterized by a generous andsincere exchange of compliments and promises of remembrance. Some tearsrose up; a few ran over. 

At the steam-boat wharf there were only the pair themselves to cling onemoment to each other and then wave that mute farewell that looks throughwatery eyes and sticks in the choking throat. Who ever knows whatgood-by means?

 * * *

"Doctor, " said Richling, when he came to accept those terms in theDoctor's proposition which applied more exclusively to himself, --"no, Doctor, not that way, please. " He put aside the money proffered him. "This is what I want to do: I will come to your house every morning andget enough to eat to sustain me through the day, and will continue to doso till I find work. "

"Very well, " said the Doctor. 

The arrangement went into effect. They never met at dinner; but almostevery morning the Doctor, going into the breakfast-room, met Richlingjust risen from his earlier and hastier meal. 

"Well? Anything yet?"

"Nothing yet. "

And, unless there was some word from Mary, nothing more would be said. So went the month of November. 

But at length, one day toward the close of the Doctor's office hours, henoticed the sound of an agile foot springing up his stairs three stepsat a stride, and Richling entered, panting and radiant. 

"Doctor, at last! At last!"

"At last, what?"

"I've found employment! I have, indeed! One line from you, and the placeis mine! A good place, Doctor, and one that I can fill. The very thingfor me! Adapted to my abilities!" He laughed so that he coughed, wasstill, and laughed again. "Just a line, if you please, Doctor. "

CHAPTER XXXII. 

A RISING STAR. 

It had been many a day since Dr. Sevier had felt such pleasure asthrilled him when Richling, half beside himself with delight, ran inupon him with the news that he had found employment. Narcisse, too, wasglad. He slipped down from his stool and came near enough to contributehis congratulatory smiles, though he did not venture to speak. Richlingnodded him a happy how-d'ye-do, and the Creole replied by a wave of thehand. 

In the Doctor's manner, on the other hand, there was a decided lack ofresponse that made Richling check his spirits and resume more slowly, --

"Do you know a man named Reisen?"

"No, " said the Doctor. 

"Why, he says he knows you. "

"That may be. "

"He says you treated his wife one night when she was very ill"--

"What name?"

"Reisen. "

The Doctor reflected a moment. 

"I believe I recollect him. Is he away up on Benjamin street, close tothe river, among the cotton-presses?"

"Yes. Thalia street they call it now. He says"--

"Does he keep a large bakery?" interrupted the Doctor. 

"The 'Star Bakery, '" said Richling, brightening again. "He sayshe knows you, and that, if you will give me just one line ofrecommendation, he will put me in charge of his accounts and give me atrial. And a trial's all I want, Doctor. I'm not the least fearful ofthe result. "

"Richling, " said Dr. Sevier, slowly picking up his paper-folder andshaking it argumentatively, "where are the letters I advised you to sendfor?"

Richling sat perfectly still, taking a long, slow breath through hisnostrils, his eyes fixed emptily on his questioner. He was thinking, away down at the bottom of his heart, --and the Doctor knew it, --thatthis was the unkindest question, and the most cold-blooded, that he hadever heard. The Doctor shook his paper-folder again. 

"You see, now, as to the bare fact, I don't know you. "

Richling's jaw dropped with astonishment. His eye lighted upresentfully. But the speaker went on:--

"I esteem you highly. I believe in you. I would trust you, Richling, "--his listener remembered how the speaker _had_ trusted him, and was melted, --"but as to recommending you, why, that is like goingupon the witness-stand, as it were, and I cannot say that I knowanything. "

Richling's face suddenly flashed full of light. He touched the Doctor'shand. 

"That's it! That's the very thing, sir! Write that!"

The Doctor hesitated. Richling sat gazing at him, afraid to move an eyelest he should lose an advantage. The Doctor turned to his desk andwrote. 

 * * *

On the next morning Richling did not come for his breakfast; and, notmany days after, Dr. Sevier received through the mail the followingletter:--

 NEW ORLEANS, December 2, 1857. 

 DEAR DOCTOR, --I've got the place. I'm Reisen's book-keeper. I'm earning my living. And I like the work. Bread, the word bread, that has so long been terrible to me, is now the sweetest word in the language. For eighteen months it was a prayer; now it's a proclamation. 

 I've not only got the place, but I'm going to keep it. I find I have new powers; and the first and best of them is the power to throw myself into my work and make it _me_. It's not a task; it's a mission. Its being bread, I suppose, makes it easier to seem so; but it should be so if it was pork and garlic, or rags and raw-hides. 

 My maxim a year ago, though I didn't know it then, was to do what I liked. Now it's to like what I do. I understand it now. And I understand now, too, that a man who expects to retain employment must yield a profit. He must be worth more than he costs. I thank God for the discipline of the last year and a half. I thank him that I did not fall where, in my cowardice, I so often prayed to fall, into the hands of foolish benefactors. You wouldn't believe this of me, I know; but it's true. I have been taught what life is; I never would have learned it any other way. 

 And still another thing: I have been taught to know what the poor suffer. I know their feelings, their temptations, their hardships, their sad mistakes, and the frightful mistakes and oversights the rich make concerning them, and the ways to give them true and helpful help. And now, if God ever gives me competency, whether he gives me abundance or not, I know what he intends me to do. I was once, in fact and in sentiment, a brother to the rich; but I know that now he has trained me to be a brother to the poor. Don't think I am going to be foolish. I remember that I'm brother to the rich too; but I'll be the other as well. How wisely has God--what am I saying? Poor fools that we humans are! We can hardly venture to praise God's wisdom to-day when we think we see it, lest it turn out to be only our own folly to-morrow. 

 But I find I'm only writing to myself, Doctor, not to you; so I stop. Mary is well, and sends you much love. 

 Yours faithfully, JOHN RICHLING. 

"Very little about Mary, " murmured Dr. Sevier. Yet he was rather pleasedthan otherwise with the letter. He thrust it into his breast-pocket. Inthe evening, at his fireside, he drew it out again and re-read it. 

"Talks as if he had got into an impregnable castle, " thought the Doctor, as he gazed into the fire. "Book-keeper to a baker, " he muttered, slowlyfolding the sheet again. It somehow vexed him to see Richling so happyin so low a station. But--"It's the joy of what he has escaped _from_, not _to_, " he presently remembered. 

A fortnight or more elapsed. A distant relative of Dr. Sevier, a man ofhis own years and profession, was his guest for two nights and a day ashe passed through the city, eastward, from an all-summer's study offevers in Mexico. They were sitting at evening on opposite sides of thelibrary fire, conversing in the leisurely ease of those to whom life isnot a novelty. 

"And so you think of having Laura and Bess come out from Charleston, andkeep house for you this winter? Their mother wrote me to that effect. "

"Yes, " said Dr. Sevier. "Society here will be a great delight to them. They will shine. And time will be less monotonous for me. It may suitme, or it may not. "

"I dare say it may, " responded the kinsman, whereas in truth he was verydoubtful about it. 

He added something, a moment later, about retiring for the night, and his host had just said, "Eh?" when a slave, in a five-year-olddress-coat, brought in the card of a person whose name was as well knownin New Orleans in those days as St. Patrick's steeple or the statue ofJackson in the old Place d'Armes. Dr. Sevier turned it over and lookedfor a moment ponderingly upon the domestic. 

The relative rose. 

"You needn't go, " said Dr. Sevier; but he said "he had intended, " etc. , and went to his chamber. 

The visitor entered. He was a dark, slender, iron gray man, of finelycut, regular features, and seeming to be much more deeply wrinkled thanon scrutiny he proved to be. One quickly saw that he was full ofreposing energy. He gave the feeling of your being very near someweapon, of dreadful efficiency, ready for instant use whenever needed. His clothing fitted him neatly; his long, gray mustache was the onlything that hung loosely about him; his boots were fine. If he had told achild that all his muscles and sinews were wrapped with fine steel wirethe child would have believed him, and continued to sit on his knee allthe same. It is said, by those who still survive him, that in dreadfulplaces and moments the flash of his fist was as quick, as irresistible, and as all-sufficient, as lightning, yet that years would sometimes passwithout its ever being lifted. 

Dr. Sevier lifted his slender length out of his easy-chair, and bowedwith severe gravity. 

"Good-evening, sir, " he said, and silently thought, "Now, what can SmithIzard possibly want with me?"

It may have been perfectly natural that this man's presence shed off allidea of medical consultation; but why should it instantly bring to theDoctor's mind, as an answer to his question, another man as differentfrom this one as water from fire?

The detective returned the Doctor's salutation, and they became seated. Then the visitor craved permission to ask a confidential question or twofor information which he was seeking in his official capacity. Hismanners were a little old-fashioned, but perfect of their kind. TheDoctor consented. The man put his hand into his breast-pocket, and drewout a daguerreotype case, touched its spring, and as it opened inhis palm extended it to the Doctor. The Doctor took it with evidentreluctance. It contained the picture of a youth who was just reachingmanhood. The detective spoke:--

"They say he ought to look older than that now. "

"He does, " said Dr. Sevier. 

"Do you know his name?" inquired the detective. 

"No. "

"What name do you know him by?"

"John Richling. "

"Wasn't he sent down by Recorder Munroe, last summer, for assault, etc. ?"

"Yes. I got him out the next day. He never should have been put in. "

To the Doctor's surprise the detective rose to go. 

"I'm much obliged to you, Doctor. "

"Is that all you wanted to ask me?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Mr. Izard, who is this young man? What has he done?"

"I don't know, sir. I have a letter from a lawyer in Kentucky who sayshe represents this young man's two sisters living there, --half-sisters, rather, --stating that his father and mother are both dead, --died withinthree days of each other. "

"What name?"

"He didn't give the name. He sent this daguerreotype, with instructionsto trace up the young man, if possible. He said there was reason tobelieve he was in New Orleans. He said, if I found him, just to see himprivately, tell him the news, and invite him to come back home. But hesaid if the young fellow had got into any kind of trouble that mightsomehow reflect on the family, you know, like getting arrested forsomething or other, you know, or some such thing, then I was just todrop the thing quietly, and say nothing about it to him or anybodyelse. "

"And doesn't that seem a strange way to manage a matter like that, --toput it into the hands of a detective?"

"Well, I don't know, " said Mr. Izard. "We're used to strange things, andthis isn't so very strange. No, it's very common. I suppose he knew thatif he gave it to me it would be attended to in a quiet and innocent sorto' way. Some people hate mighty bad to get talked about. Nobody's seenthat picture but you and one 'aid, ' and just as soon as he saw it hesaid, 'Why, that's the chap that Dr. Sevier took out of the ParishPrison last September. ' And there won't anybody else see it. "

"Don't you intend to see Richling?" asked the Doctor, following thedetective toward the door. 

"I don't see as it would be any use, " said the detective, "seeing he'sbeen sent down, and so on. I'll write to the lawyer and state the facts, and wait for orders. "

"But do you know how slight the blame was that got him into troublehere?"

"Yes. The 'aid' who saw the picture told me all about that. It was ashame. I'll say so. I'll give all the particulars. But I tell you, Ijust guess--they'll drop him. "

"I dare say, " said Dr. Sevier. 

"Well, Doctor, " said Mr. Izard, "hope I haven't annoyed you. "

"No, " replied the Doctor. 

But he had; and the annoyance had not ceased to be felt when, a fewmornings afterward, Narcisse suddenly doubled--trebled it by saying:--

"Doctah Seveeah, "--it was a cold day and the young Creole stood amoment with his back to the office fire, to which he had just given anenergetic and prolonged poking, --"a man was yeh, to see you, name'Bison. 'F want' to see you about Mistoo Itchlin. "

The Doctor looked up with a start, and Narcisse continued:--

"Mistoo Itchlin is wuckin' in 'is employment. I think 'e's please' with'im. "

"Then why does he come to see me about him?" asked the Doctor, sosharply that Narcisse shrugged as he replied:--

"Reely, I cann' tell you; but thass one thing, Doctah, I dunno if you'ave notiz: the worl' halways take a gweat deal of welfa'e in a man w'en'e's 'ising. I do that myseff. Some'ow I cann' 'e'p it. " This boldspeech was too much for him. He looked down at his symmetrical legs andwent back to his desk. 

The Doctor was far from reassured. After a silence he called out:--

"Did he say he would come back?" A knock at the door arrested theanswer, and a huge, wide, broad-faced German entered diffidently. TheDoctor recognized Reisen. The visitor took off his flour-dusted hat andbowed with great deference. 

"Toc-tor, " he softly drawled, "I yoost taught I trop in on you to say averte to you apowt teh chung yentleman vot you hef rickomendet to me. "

"I didn't recommend him to you, sir. I wrote you distinctly that I didnot feel at liberty to recommend him. "

"Tat iss teh troot, Toctor Tseweer; tat iss teh ectsectly troot. Shtill I taught I'll yoost trop in on you to say a verte toyou, --Toctor, --apowt Mister"-- He hung his large head at one sideto remember. 

"Richling, " said the Doctor, impatiently. 

"Yes, sir. Apowt Mister Richlun. I heff a tifficuldy to rigolict naymps. I yoost taught I voot trop in und trop a verte to you apowt Mr. Richlun, vot maypy you titn't herr udt before, yet. "

"Yes, " said the Doctor, with ill-concealed contempt. "Well, speak itout, Mr. Reisen; time is precious. "

The German smiled and made a silly gesture of assent. 

"Yes, udt is brecious. Shtill I taught I voot take enough time toyoost trop in undt say to you tat I heffent het Mr. Richlun in myetsteplitchmendt a veek undtil I finte owdt someting apowt him, tot, ufyou het a-knowdt ud, voot hef mate your letter maypy a little tifferendtwritten, yet. "

Now, at length, Dr. Sevier's annoyance was turned to dismay. He waitedin silence for Reisen to unfold his enigma, but already his resentmentagainst Richling was gathering itself for a spring. To the baker, however, he betrayed only a cold hostility. 

"I kept a copy of my letter to you, Mr. Reisen, and there isn't a wordin it which need have misled you, sir. "

The baker waved his hand amicably. 

"Sure, Tocter Tseweer, I toandt hef nutting to gomblain akinst tehvertes of tat letter. You voss mighty puttickly. Ovver, shtill, I hefsumpting to tell you vot ef you het a-knowdt udt pefore you writed tosevertes, alreatty, t'ey voot a little tifferendt pin. "

"Well, sir, why don't you tell it?"

Reisen smiled. "Tat iss teh ectsectly vot I am coing to too. I yoosttaught I'll trop in undt tell you, Toctor, tat I heffent het Mr. Richlunin my etsteplitchmendt a veek undtil I findte owdt tat he'sa--berfect--tressure. "

Doctor Sevier started half up from his chair, dropped into it again, wheeled half away, and back again with the blood surging into his faceand exclaimed:--

"Why, what do you mean by such drivelling nonsense, sir? You've given mea positive fright!" He frowned the blacker as the baker smiled from earto ear. 

"Vy, Toctor, I hope you ugscooce me! I yoost taught you voot like toherr udt. Undt Missis Reisen sayce, 'Reisen, you yoost co undt tell um. 'I taught udt voot pe blessant to you to know tatt you hett sendt me tehfynust pissness mayn I effer het apowdt me. Undt uff he iss onnust heiss a berfect tressure, undt uff he aint a berfect tressure, "--he smiledanew and tendered his capacious hat to his listener, --"you yoost kintake tiss, Toctor, undt kip udt undt vare udt! Toctor, I vish you amerrah Chris'mus!"

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

BEES, WASPS, AND BUTTERFLIES. 

The merry day went by. The new year, 1858, set in. Everything gatheredmomentum. There was a panic and a crash. The brother-in-law of sisterJane--he whom Dr. Sevier met at that quiet dinner-party--struck animpediment, stumbled, staggered, fell under the feet of the racers, andcrawled away minus not money and credit only, but all his philosophyabout helping the poor, maimed in spirit, his pride swollen withbruises, his heart and his speech soured beyond all sweetening. 

Many were the wrecks. But over their débris, Mercury and Venus--the busyseason and the gay season--ran lightly, hand in hand. Men getting moneyand women squandering it. Whole nights in the ball-room. Gold pouring inat the hopper and out at the spout, --Carondelet street emptying like ayellow river into Canal street. Thousands for vanity; thousands forpride; thousands for influence and for station; thousands for hiddensins; a slender fraction for the wants of the body; a slenderer for thecravings of the soul. Lazarus paid to stay away from the gate. John theBaptist, in raiment of broadcloth, a circlet of white linen about hisneck, and his meat strawberries and ice-cream. The lower classesmentioned mincingly; awkward silences or visible wincings at allusionsto death, and converse on eternal things banished as if it were thesmell of cabbage. So looked the gay world, at least, to Dr. Sevier. 

He saw more of it than had been his wont for many seasons. The twoyoung-lady cousins whom he had brought and installed in his homethirsted for that gorgeous, nocturnal moth life in which no thirst istruly slaked, and dragged him with them into the iridescent, gas-lightedspider-web of society. 

"Now, you know you like it!" they said. 

"A little of it, yes. But I don't see how you can like it, who virtuallylive in it and upon it. Why, I would as soon try to live upon cake andcandy!"

"Well, we can live very nicely upon cake and candy, " retorted they. 

"Why, girls, it's no more life than spice is food. What loftymotive--what earnest, worthy object"--

But they drowned his homily in a carol, and ran away arm in arm to dressfor another ball. One of them stopped in the door with an air of mockbravado:--

"What do we care for lofty motives or worthy objects?"

A smile escaped from him as she vanished. His condemnation was flavoredwith charity. "It's their mating season, " he silently thought, and, notknowing he did it, sighed. 

"There come Dr. Sevier and his two pretty cousins, " was the ball-roomwhisper. "Beautiful girls--rich widower without children--great catch!_Passé_, how? Well, maybe so; not as much as he makes himself out, though. " "_Passé_, yes, " said a merciless belle to a blade of her ownyears; "a man of strong sense is _passé_ at any age. " Sister Jane's namewas mentioned in the same connection, but that illusion quickly passed. The cousins denied indignantly that he had any matrimonial intention. Somebody dissipated the rumor by a syllogism: "A man hunting a secondwife always looks like a fool; the Doctor doesn't look a bit like afool, ergo"--

He grew very weary of the giddy rout, standing in it like a rock in awhirlpool. He did rejoice in the Carnival, but only because it was theend. 

"Pretty? yes, as pretty as a bonfire, " he said. "I can't enjoy muchfiddling while Rome is burning. "

"But Rome isn't always burning, " said the cousins. 

"Yes, it is! Yes, it is!"

The wickeder of the two cousins breathed a penitential sigh, dropped herbare, jewelled arms out of her cloak, and said:--

"Now tell us once more about Mary Richling. " He had bored them to deathwith Mary. 

Lent was a relief to all three. One day, as the Doctor was walking alongthe street, a large hand grasped his elbow and gently arrested hissteps. He turned. 

"Well, Reisen, is that you?"

The baker answered with his wide smile. "Yes, Toctor, tat iss me, sure. You titn't tink udt iss Mr. Richlun, tit you?"

"No. How is Richling?"

"Vell, Mr. Richlun kitten along so-o-o-so-o-o. He iss not ferra shtrong;ovver he vurks like a shteam-inchyine. "

"I haven't seen him for many a day, " said Dr. Sevier. 

The baker distended his eyes, bent his enormous digestive apparatusforward, raised his eyebrows, and hung his arms free from his sides. "Hetoandt kit a minudt to shpare in teh tswendy-four hourss. Sumptimes hesayss, 'Mr. Reisen, I can't shtop to talk mit you. ' Sindts Mr. Richlunpin py my etsteplitchmendt, I tell you teh troot, Toctor Tseweer, I amyoost meckin' monneh haynd ofer fist!" He swung his chest forward again, drew in his lower regions, revolved his fists around each other for amoment, and then let them fall open at his sides, with the addedassurance, "Now you kott teh ectsectly troot. "

The Doctor started away, but the baker detained him by a touch:--

"You toandt kott enna verte to sendt to Mr. Richlun, Toctor!"

"Yes. Tell him to come and pass an hour with me some evening in mylibrary. "

The German lifted his hand in delight. 

"Vy, tot's yoost teh dting! Mr. Richlun alvayss pin sayin', 'I vish heaysk me come undt see um;' undt I sayss, 'You holdt shtill, yet, Mr. Richlun; teh next time I see um I make um aysk you. ' Vell, now, titn't Itunned udt?" He was happy. 

"Well, ask him, " said the Doctor, and got away. 

"No fool is an utter fool, " pondered the Doctor, as he went. Two friendshad been kept long apart by the fear of each, lest he should seem to besetting up claims based on the past. It required a simpleton to bringthem together. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

TOWARD THE ZENITH. 

"Richling, I am glad to see you!"

Dr. Sevier had risen from his luxurious chair beside a table, the softdownward beams of whose lamp partly showed, and partly hid, the richappointments of his library. He grasped Richling's hand, and with anextensive stride drew forward another chair on its smooth-runningcasters. 

Then inquiries were exchanged as to the health of one and the other. TheDoctor, with his professional eye, noticed, as the light fell full uponhis visitor's buoyant face, how thin and pale he had grown. He roseagain, and stepping beyond Richling with a remark, in part complimentaryand in part critical, upon the balmy April evening, let down the sash ofa window where the smell of honeysuckles was floating in. 

"Have you heard from your wife lately?" he asked, as he resumed hisseat. 

"Yesterday, " said Richling. "Yes, she's very well, been well ever sinceshe left us. She always sends love to you. "

"Hum, " responded the physician. He fixed his eyes on the mantel andasked abstractedly, "How do you bear the separation?"

"Oh!" Richling laughed, "not very heroically. It's a great strain on aman's philosophy. "

"Work is the only antidote, " said the Doctor, not moving his eyes. 

"Yes, so I find it, " answered the other. "It's bearable enough while oneis working like mad; but sooner or later one must sit down to meals, orlie down to rest, you know"--

"Then it hurts, " said the Doctor. 

"It's a lively discipline, " mused Richling. 

"Do you think you learn anything by it?" asked the other, turning hiseyes slowly upon him. "That's what it means, you notice. "

"Yes, I do, " replied Richling, smiling; "I learn the very thing Isuppose you're thinking of, --that separation isn't disruption, and thatno pair of true lovers are quite fitted out for marriage until they canbear separation if they must. "

"Yes, " responded the physician; "if they can muster the good sense tosee that they'll not be so apt to marry prematurely. I needn't tell youI believe in marrying for love; but these needs-must marriages are soineffably silly. You 'must' and you 'will' marry, and 'nobody shallhinder you!' And you do it! And in three or four or six months"--he drewin his long legs energetically from the hearth-pan--"_death_ separatesyou!--death, sometimes, resulting directly from the turn your haste hasgiven to events! Now, where is your 'must' and 'will'?" He stretched hislegs out again, and laid his head on his cushioned chair-back. 

"I have made a narrow escape, " said Richling. 

"I wasn't so fortunate, " responded the Doctor, turning solemnly towardhis young friend. "Richling, just seven months after I married Alice Iburied her. I'm not going into particulars--of course; but the sicknessthat carried her off was distinctly connected with the haste of ourmarriage. Your Bible, Richling, that you lay such store by, is right; weshould want things as if we didn't want them. That isn't the quotation, exactly, but it's the idea. I swore I couldn't and wouldn't live withouther; but, you see, this is the fifteenth year that I have had to do it. "

"I should think it would have unmanned you for life, " said Richling. 

"It made a man of me! I've never felt young a day since, and yet I'venever seemed to grow a day older. It brought me all at once to my fullmanhood. I have never consciously disputed God's arrangements since. Theman who does is only a wayward child. "

"It's true, " said Richling, with an air of confession, "it's true;" andthey fell into silence. 

Presently Richling looked around the room. His eyes brightened rapidlyas he beheld the ranks and tiers of good books. He breathed an audibledelight. The multitude of volumes rose in the old-fashioned way, inornate cases of dark wood from floor to ceiling, on this hand, on that, before him, behind; some in gay covers, --green, blue, crimson, --withgilding and embossing; some in the sumptuous leathers of France, Russia, Morocco, Turkey; others in worn attire, battered and venerable, dingybut precious, --the gray heads of the council. 

The two men rose and moved about among those silent wits andphilosophers, and, from the very embarrassment of the inner riches, fellto talking of letter-press and bindings, with maybe some effort on thepart of each to seem the better acquainted with Caxton, the Elzevirs, and other like immortals. They easily passed to a competitiveenumeration of the rare books they had seen or not seen here and therein other towns and countries. Richling admitted he had travelled, andthe conversation turned upon noted buildings and famous old nooks indistant cities where both had been. So they moved slowly back to theirchairs, and stood by them, still contemplating the books. But as theysank again into their seats the one thought which had fastened itself inthe minds of both found fresh expression. 

Richling began, smilingly, as if the subject had not been dropped atall, --"I oughtn't to speak as if I didn't realize my good fortune, for Ido. "

"I believe you do, " said the Doctor, reaching toward the fire-irons. 

"Yes. Still, I lose patience with myself to find myself taking Mary'sabsence so hard. "

"All hardships are comparative, " said the Doctor. 

"Certainly they are, " replied Richling. "I lie sometimes and think ofmen who have been political prisoners, shut away from wife and children, with war raging outside and no news coming in. "

"Think of the common poor, " exclaimed Dr. Sevier, --"the thousands ofsailors' wives and soldiers' wives. Where does that thought carry you?"

"It carries me, " responded the other, with a low laugh, "to where I'malways a little ashamed of myself. "

"I didn't mean it to do that, " said the Doctor; "I can imagine how youmiss your wife. I miss her myself. "

"Oh! but she's here on this earth. She's alive and well. Any burden islight when I think of that--pardon me, Doctor!"

"Go on, go on. Anything you please about her, Richling. " The Doctor halfsat, half lay in his chair, his eyes partly closed. "Go on, " herepeated. 

"I was only going to say that long before Mary went away, many a timewhen she and I were fighting starvation at close quarters, I havelooked at her and said to myself, 'What if I were in Dr. Sevier'splace?' and it gave me strength to rise up and go on. "

"You were right. "

"I know I was. I often wake now at night and turn and find the place bymy side empty, and I can hardly keep from calling her aloud. It wrenchesme, but before long I think she's no such great distance away, sincewe're both on the same earth together, and by and by she'll be here atmy side; and so it becomes easy to me once more. " Richling, in theself-occupation of a lover, forgot what pains he might be inflicting. But the Doctor did not wince. 

"Yes, " said the physician, "of course you wouldn't want the separationto be painless; and it promises a reward, you know. "

"Ah!" exclaimed Richling, with an exultant smile and motion of the head, and then dropped his eyes in meditation. The Doctor looked at himsteadily. 

"Richling, you've gathered some terribly hard experiences. But hardexperiences are often the foundation-stones of a successful life. Youcan make them all profitable. You can make them draw you along, so tospeak. But you must hold them well in hand, as you would a dangerousteam, you know, --coolly and alertly, firmly and patiently, --and neverlet the reins slack till you've driven through the last gate. "

Richling replied, with a pleasant nod, "I believe I shall do it. Did younotice what I wrote you in my letter? I have got the notion stronglythat the troubles we have gone through--Mary and I--were only ournecessary preparation--not so necessary for her as for me"--

"No, " said Dr. Sevier, and Richling continued, with a smile:--

"To fit us for a long and useful life, and especially a life that willbe full of kind and valuable services to the poor. If that isn't whatthey were sent for"--he dropped into a tone of reflection--"then I don'tunderstand them. "

"And suppose you don't understand, " said the Doctor, with his cold, grimlook. 

"Oh!" rejoined Richling, in amiable protest; "but a man would like tounderstand. "

"Like to--yes, " replied the Doctor; "but be careful. The spirit that_must_ understand is the spirit that can't trust. " He paused. Presentlyhe said, "Richling!"

Richling answered by an inquiring glance. 

"Take better care of your health, " said the physician. 

Richling smiled--a young man's answer--and rose to say good-night. 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

TO SIGH, YET FEEL NO PAIN. 

Mrs. Riley missed the Richlings, she said, more than tongue could tell. She had easily rented the rooms they left vacant; that was not thetrouble. The new tenant was a sallow, gaunt, wind-dried seamstress ofsixty, who paid her rent punctually, but who was--

"Mighty poor comp'ny to thim as's been used to the upper tin, Mr. Ristofalo. "

Still she was a protection. Mrs. Riley had not regarded this as anecessity in former days, but now, somehow, matters seemed different. This seamstress had, moreover, a son of eighteen years, principallyskin and bone, who was hoping to be appointed assistant hostler at thefire-engine house of "Volunteer One, " and who meantime hung about Mrs. Riley's dwelling and loved to relieve her of the care of little Mike. This also was something to be appreciated. Still there was a void. 

"Well, Mr. Richlin'!" cried Mrs. Riley, as she opened her parlor door inresponse to a knock. "Well, I'll be switched! ha! ha! I didn't think itwas you at all. Take a seat and sit down!"

It was good to see how she enjoyed the visit. Whenever she listened toRichling's words she rocked in her rocking-chair vigorously, and whenshe spoke stopped its motion and rested her elbows on its arms. 

"And how _is_ Mrs. Richlin'? And so she sent her love to me, did she, now? The blessed angel! Now, ye're not just a-makin' that up? No, Iknow ye wouldn't do sich a thing as that, Mr. Richlin'. Well, you mustgive her mine back again. I've nobody else on e'rth to give ud to, andnever will have. " She lifted her nose with amiable stateliness, as if toimply that Richling might not believe this, but that it was true, nevertheless. 

"You may change your mind, Mrs. Riley, some day, " returned Richling, alittle archly. 

"Ha! ha!" She tossed her head and laughed with good-natured scorn. "Nivver a fear o' that, Mr. Richlin'!" Her brogue was apt to broadenwhen pleasure pulled down her dignity. "And, if I did, it wuddent be forthe likes of no I-talian Dago, if id's him ye're a-dthrivin' at, --notintinding anny disrespect to your friend, Mr. Richlin', and indeed Idon't deny he's a perfect gintleman, --but, indeed, Mr. Richlin', I'mjust after thinkin' that you and yer lady wouldn't have no self-respectfor Kate Riley if she should be changing her name. "

"Still you were thinking about it, " said Richling, with a twinkle. 

"Ah! ha! ha! Indeed I wasn', an' ye needn' be t'rowin' anny o' yerslyness on me. Ye know ye'd have no self-respect fur me. No; now ye knowye wuddent, --wud ye?"

"Why, Mrs. Riley, of course we would. Why--why not?" He stood in thedoor-way, about to take his leave. "You may be sure we'll always be gladof anything that will make you the happier. " Mrs. Riley looked so gravethat he checked his humor. 

"But in the nixt life, Mr. Richlin', how about that?"

"There? I suppose we shall simply each love all in absolute perfection. We'll"--

"We'll never know the differ, " interposed Mrs. Riley. 

"That's it, " said Richling, smiling again. "And so I say, --and I'vealways said, --if a person _feels_ like marrying again, let him do it. "

"Have ye, now? Well, ye're just that good, Mr. Richlin'. "

"Yes, " he responded, trying to be grave, "that's about my measure. "

"Would _you_ do ut?"

"No, I wouldn't. I couldn't. But I should like--in good earnest, Mrs. Riley, I should like, now, the comfort of knowing that you were not topass all the rest of your days in widowhood. "

"Ah! ged out, Mr. Richlin'!" She failed in her effort to laugh. "Ah!ye're sly!" She changed her attitude and drew a breath. 

"No, " said Richling, "no, honestly. I should feel that you deservedbetter at this world's hands than that, and that the world deservedbetter of you. I find two people don't make a world, Mrs. Riley, thoughoften they think they do. They certainly don't when one is gone. "

"Mr. Richlin', " exclaimed Mrs. Riley, drawing back and waving her handsweetly, "stop yer flattery! Stop ud! Ah! ye're a-feeling yer oats, Mr. Richlin'. An' ye're a-showin' em too, ye air. Why, I hered ye waslookin' terrible, and here ye're lookin' just splendud!"

"Who told you that?" asked Richling. 

"Never mind! Never mind who he was--ha, ha, ha!" She checked herselfsuddenly. "Ah, me! It's a shame for the likes o' me to be behavin' thatfoolish!" She put on additional dignity. "I will always be the WidowRiley. " Then relaxing again into sweetness: "Marridge is a lottery, Mr. Richlin'; indeed an' it is; and ye know mighty well that he ye're afterjoking me about is no more nor a fri'nd. " She looked sweet enough forsomebody to kiss. 

"I don't know so certainly about that, " said her visitor, stepping downupon the sidewalk and putting on his hat. "If I may judge by"-- Hepaused and glanced at the window. 

"Ah, now, Mr. Richlin', na-na-now, Mr. Richlin', ye daurn't say ud! Yedaurn't!" She smiled and blushed and arched her neck and rose and sankupon herself with sweet delight. 

"I say if I may judge by what he has said to me, " insisted Richling. 

Mrs. Riley glided down across the door-step, and, with all theinsinuation of her sex and nation, demanded:--

"What'd he tell ye? Ah! he didn't tell ye nawthing! Ha, ha! there wasn'nawthing to tell!" But Richling slipped away. 

Mrs. Riley shook her finger: "Ah, ye're a wicket joker, Mr. Richlin'. Ididn't think that o' the likes of a gintleman like you, anyhow!" Sheshook her finger again as she withdrew into the house, smiling broadlyall the way in to the cradle, where she kissed and kissed again herruddy, chubby, sleeping boy. 

 * * *

Ristofalo came often. He was a man of simple words, and of few thoughtsof the kind that were available in conversation; but his personaladventures had begun almost with infancy, and followed one another inclose and strange succession over lands and seas ever since. He couldtherefore talk best about himself, though he talked modestly. "Thesethings to hear would Desdemona seriously incline, " and there came timeswhen even a tear was not wanting to gem the poetry of the situation. 

"And ye might have saved yerself from all that, " was sometimes her noteof sympathy. But when he asked how she silently dried her eyes. 

Sometimes his experiences had been intensely ludicrous, and Mrs. Rileywould laugh until in pure self-oblivion she smote her thigh with herpalm, or laid her hand so smartly against his shoulder as to tip himhalf off his seat. 

"Ye didn't!"

"Yes. "

"Ah! Get out wid ye, Raphael Ristofalo, --to be telling me that for thetrooth!"

At one such time she was about to give him a second push, but he tookthe hand in his, and quietly kept it to the end of his story. 

He lingered late that evening, but at length took his hat from under hischair, rose, and extended his hand. 

"Man alive!" she cried, "that's my _hand_, sur, I'd have ye to know. Begahn wid ye! Lookut heere! What's the reason ye make it so long atweenyer visits, eh? Tell me that. Ah--ah--ye've no need fur to tell me, Mr. Ristofalo! Ah--now don't tell a lie!"

"Too busy. Come all time--wasn't too busy. "

"Ha, ha! Yes, yes; ye're too busy. Of coorse ye're too busy. Oh, yes! ye_air_ too busy--a-courtin' thim I-talian froot gerls around the FrinchMairket. Ah! I'll bet two bits ye're a bouncer! Ah, don't tell me. Iknow ye, ye villain! Some o' thim's a-waitin' fur ye now, ha, ha! Go!And don't ye nivver come back heere anny more. D'ye mind?"

"Aw righ'. " The Italian took her hand for the third time and held it, standing in his simple square way before her and wearing his gentlesmile as he looked her in the eye. "Good-by, Kate. "

Her eye quailed. Her hand pulled a little helplessly and in a meek voiceshe said:--

"That's not right for you to do me that a-way, Mr. Ristofalo. I've got ahandle to my name, sur. "

She threw some gentle rebuke into her glance, and turned it upon him. Hemet it with that same amiable absence of emotion that was always in hislook. 

"Kate too short by itself?" he asked. "Aw righ'; make it KateRistofalo. "

"No, " said Mrs. Riley, averting and drooping her face. 

"Take good care of you, " said the Italian; "you and Mike. Always bekind. Good care. "

Mrs. Riley turned with sudden fervor. 

"Good cayre!--Mr. Ristofalo, " she exclaimed, lifting her free hand andtouching her bosom with the points of her fingers, "ye don't know thehairt of a woman, surr! No-o-o, surr! It's _love_ we wants! 'The hairtas has trooly loved nivver furgits, but as trooly loves ahn to thetlose!'"

"Yes, " said the Italian; "yes, " nodding and ever smiling, "dass awrigh'. "

But she:--

"Ah! it's no use fur you to be a-talkin' an' a-pallaverin' to Kate Rileywhen ye don't be lovin' her, Mr. Ristofalo, an' ye know ye don't. "

A tear glistened in her eye. 

"Yes, love you, " said the Italian; "course, love you. "

He did not move a foot or change the expression of a feature. 

"H-yes!" said the widow. "H-yes!" she panted. "H-yes, a little! Alittle, Mr. Ristofalo! But I want"--she pressed her hand hard upon herbosom, and raised her eyes aloft--"I want to be--h--h--h-adaured aboveall the e'rth!"

"Aw righ', " said Ristofalo; "das aw righ'; yes--door above all youworth. "

"Raphael Ristofalo, " she said, "ye're a-deceivin' me! Ye came heere whinnobody axed ye, --an' that ye know is a fact, surr, --an' made yerselfagree'ble to a poor, unsuspectin' widdah, an' [_tears_] rabbed me o' miehairt, ye did; whin I nivver intinded to git married ag'in. "

"Don't cry, Kate--Kate Ristofalo, " quietly observed the Italian, gettingan arm around her waist, and laying a hand on the farther cheek. "KateRistofalo. "

"Shut!" she exclaimed, turning with playful fierceness, and proudlydrawing back her head; "shut! Hah! It's Kate Ristofalo, is it? Ah, yethink so? Hah-h! It'll be ad least two weeks yet before the priest willbe after giving you the right to call me that!"

And, in fact, an entire fortnight did pass before they were married. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

WHAT NAME?

Richling in Dr. Sevier's library, one evening in early May, gave himgreat amusement by an account of the Ristofalo-Riley wedding. He hadattended it only the night before. The Doctor had received aninvitation, but had pleaded previous engagements. 

"But I am glad you went, " he said to Richling; "however, go on with youraccount. "

"Oh! I was glad to go. And I'm certainly glad I went. "

Richling proceeded with the recital. The Doctor smiled. It was verydroll, --the description of persons and costumes. Richling was quiteanother than his usual restrained self this evening. Oddly enough, too, for this was but his second visit; the confinement of his work wasalmost like an imprisonment, it was so constant. The Doctor had neverseen him in just such a glow. He even mimicked the brogue of two orthree Irish gentlemen, and the soft, outlandish swing in the English ofone or two Sicilians. He did it all so well that, when he gave aninstance of some of the broad Hibernian repartee he had heard, theDoctor actually laughed audibly. One of his young-lady cousins on somepretext opened a door, and stole a glance within to see what could haveproduced a thing so extraordinary. 

"Come in, Laura; come in! Tell Bess to come in. "

The Doctor introduced Richling with due ceremony Richling could not, ofcourse, after this accession of numbers, go on being funny. The mistakewas trivial, but all saw it. Still the meeting was pleasant. The girlswere very intelligent and vivacious. Richling found a certainrefreshment in their graceful manners, like what we sometimes feel incatching the scent of some long-forgotten perfume. They had not beentold all his history, but had heard enough to make them curious to seeand speak to him. They were evidently pleased with him, and Dr. Sevier, observing this, betrayed an air that was much like triumph. But after awhile they went as they had come. 

"Doctor, " said Richling, smiling until Dr. Sevier wondered silently whatpossessed the fellow, "excuse me for bringing this here. But I find itso impossible to get to your office"-- He moved nearer the Doctor's tableand put his hand into his bosom. 

"What's that?" asked the Doctor, frowning heavily. Richling smiled stillbroader than before. 

"This is a statement, " he said. 

"Of what?"

"Of the various loans you have made me, with interest to date. "

"Yes?" said the Doctor, frigidly. 

"And here, " persisted the happy man, straightening out a leg as he haddone the first time they ever met, and drawing a roll of notes from hispocket, "is the total amount. "

"Yes?" The Doctor regarded them with cold contempt. "That's all verypleasant for you, I suppose, Richling, --shows you're the right kind ofman, I suppose, and so on. I know that already, however. Now just putall that back into your pocket; the sight of it isn't pleasant. Youcertainly don't imagine I'm going to take it, do you?"

"You promised to take it when you lent it. "

"Humph! Well, I didn't say when. "

"As soon as I could pay it, " said Richling. 

"I don't remember, " replied the Doctor, picking up a newspaper. "Irelease myself from that promise. "

"I don't release you, " persisted Richling; "neither does Mary. "

The Doctor was quiet awhile before he answered. He crossed his knees, amoment after folded his arms, and presently said:--

"Foolish pride, Richling. "

"We know that, " replied Richling; "we don't deny that that feelingcreeps in. But we'd never do anything that's right if we waited for anunmixed motive, would we?"

"Then you think my motive--in refusing it--is mixed, probably. "

"Ho-o-oh!" laughed Richling. The gladness within him would breakthrough. "Why, Doctor, nothing could be more different. It doesn't seemto me as though you ever had a mixed motive. "

The Doctor did not answer. He seemed to think the same thing. 

"We know very well, Doctor, that if we should accept this kindness wemight do it in a spirit of proper and commendable--a--humble-mindedness. But it isn't mere pride that makes us insist. "

"No?" asked the Doctor, cruelly. "What is it else?"

"Why, I hardly know what to call it, except that it's a convictionthat--well, that to pay is best; that it's the nearest to justice we canget, and that"--he spoke faster--"that it's simply duty to choosejustice when we can and mercy when we must. There, I've hit it out!" Helaughed again. "Don't you see, Doctor? Justice when we may--mercy whenwe must! It's your own principles!"

The Doctor looked straight at the mantel-piece as he asked:--

"Where did you get that idea?"

"I don't know; partly from nowhere, and"--

"Partly from Mary, " interrupted the Doctor. He put out his long whitepalm. "It's all right. Give me the money. " Richling counted it into hishand. He rolled it up and stuffed it into his portemonnaie. 

"You like to part with your hard earnings, do you, Richling?"

"Earnings can't be hard, " was the reply; "it's borrowings that arehard. "

The Doctor assented. 

"And, of course, " said Richling, "I enjoy paying old debts. " He stoodand leaned his head in his hand with his elbow on the mantel. "But, evenaside from that, I'm happy. "

"I see you are!" remarked the physician, emphatically, catching the armsof his chair and drawing his feet closer in. "You've been smiling worsethan a boy with a love-letter. "

"I've been hoping you'd ask me what's the matter. "

"Well, then, Richling, what is the matter?"

"Mary has a daughter. "

"What!" cried the Doctor, springing up with a radiant face, and graspingRichling's hand in both his own. 

Richling laughed aloud, nodded, laughed again, and gave either eye aquick, energetic wipe with all his fingers. 

"Doctor, " he said, as the physician sank back into his chair, "we wantto name"--he hesitated, stood on one foot and leaned again against theshelf--"we want to call her by the name of--if we may"--

The Doctor looked up as if with alarm, and John said, timidly, --"Alice!"

Dr. Sevier's eyes--what was the matter? His mouth quivered. He noddedand whispered huskily:--

"All right. "

After a long pause Richling expressed the opinion that he had better begoing, and the Doctor did not indicate any difference of conviction. Atthe door the Doctor asked:--

"If the fever should break out this summer, Richling, will you go away?"

"No. "

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

PESTILENCE. 

On the twentieth of June, 1858, an incident occurred in New Orleanswhich challenged special attention from the medical profession. Beforethe month closed there was a second, similar to the first. The pressdid not give such matters to the public in those days; it would onlymake the public--the advertising public--angry. Times have changedsince--faced clear about: but at that period Dr. Sevier, who hated asecret only less than a falsehood, was right in speaking as he did. 

"Now you'll see, " he said, pointing downward aslant, "the wholecommunity stick its head in the sand!" He sent for Richling. 

"I give you fair warning, " he said. "It's coming. "

"Don't cases occur sometimes in an isolated way without--anythingfurther?" asked Richling, with a promptness which showed he had alreadybeen considering the matter. 

"Yes. "

"And might not this"--

"Richling, I give you fair warning. "

"Have you sent your cousins away, Doctor?"

"They go to-morrow. " After a silence the Doctor added: "I tell you now, because this is the time to decide what you will do. If you are notprepared to take all the risks and stay them through, you had better goat once. "

"What proportion of those who are taken sick of it die?" asked Richling. 

"The proportion varies in different seasons; say about one in seven oreight. But your chances would be hardly so good, for you're not strong, Richling, nor well either. "

Richling stood and swung his hat against his knee. 

"I really don't see, Doctor, that I have any choice at all. I couldn'tgo to Mary--when she has but just come through a mother's pains anddangers--and say, 'I've thrown away seven good chances of life to runaway from one bad one. ' Why, to say nothing else, Reisen can't spareme. " He smiled with boyish vanity. 

"O Richling, that's silly!"

"I--I know it, " exclaimed the other, quickly; "I see it is. If he couldspare me, of course he wouldn't be paying me a salary. " But the Doctorsilenced him by a gesture. 

"The question is not whether he can spare you, at all. It's simply, canyou spare him?"

"Without violating any pledge, you mean, " added Richling. 

"Of course, " assented the physician. 

"Well, I can't spare him, Doctor. He has given me a hold on life, and noone chance in seven, or six, or five is going to shake me loose. Why, Itell you I couldn't look Mary in the face!"

"Have your own way, " responded the Doctor. "There are some things inyour favor. You frail fellows often pull through easier than the big, full-blooded ones. "

"Oh, it's Mary's way too, I feel certain!" retorted Richling, gayly, "and I venture to say"--he coughed and smiled again--"it's yours. "

"I didn't say it wasn't, " replied the unsmiling Doctor, reaching for apen and writing a prescription. "Here; get that and take it according todirection. It's for that cold. "

"If I should take the fever, " said Richling, coming out of a revery, "Mary will want to come to me. "

"Well, she mustn't come a step!" exclaimed the Doctor. 

"You'll forbid it, will you not, Doctor? Pledge me!"

"I do better, sir; I pledge myself. "

So the July suns rose up and moved across the beautiful blue sky; themoon went through all her majestic changes; on thirty-one successivemidnights the Star Bakery sent abroad its grateful odors of bread, andas the last night passed into the first twinkling hour of morning themonth chronicled one hundred and thirty-one deaths from yellow fever. The city shuddered because it knew, and because it did not know, whatwas in store. People began to fly by hundreds, and then by thousands. Many were overtaken and stricken down as they fled. Still men pliedtheir vocations, children played in the streets, and the days came andwent, fair, blue tremulous with sunshine, or cool and gray and sweetwith summer rain. How strange it was for nature to be so beautiful andso unmoved! By and by one could not look down a street, on this hand oron that, but he saw a funeral. Doctors' gigs began to be hailed on thestreets and to refuse to stop, and houses were pointed out that had justbecome the scenes of strange and harrowing episodes. 

"Do you see that bakery, --the 'Star Bakery'? Five funerals from thatplace--and another goes this afternoon. "

Before this was said August had completed its record of eleven hundreddeaths, and September had begun the long list that was to addtwenty-two hundred more. Reisen had been the first one ill in theestablishment. He had been losing friends, --one every few days; and hethought it only plain duty, let fear or prudence say what they might, to visit them at their bedsides and follow them to their tombs. Itwas not only the outer man of Reisen, but the heart as well, that waselephantine. He had at length come home from one of these funerals withpains in his back and limbs, and the various familiar accompaniments. 

"I feel right clumsy, " he said, as he lifted his great feet and loweredthem into the mustard foot-bath. 

"Doctor Sevier, " said Richling, as he and the physician paused half waybetween the sick-chambers of Reisen and his wife, "I hope you'll notthink it foolhardy for me to expose myself by nursing these people"--

"No, " replied the veteran, in a tone of indifference, and passed on; thetincture of self-approval that had "mixed" with Richling's motives wentaway to nothing. 

Both Reisen and his wife recovered. But an apple-cheeked brother of thebaker, still in a green cap and coat that he had come in from Germany, was struck from the first with that mortal terror which is so often anevil symptom of the disease, and died, on the fifth day after hisattack, in raging delirium. Ten of the workmen, bakers and others, followed him. Richling alone, of all in the establishment, while thesick lay scattered through the town on uncounted thousands of beds, andthe month of October passed by, bringing death to eleven hundred more, escaped untouched of the scourge. 

"I can't understand it, " he said. 

"Demand an immediate explanation, " said Dr. Sevier, with sombre irony. 

How did others fare? Ristofalo had, time and again, sailed with thefever, nursed it, slept with it. It passed him by again. Little Miketook it, lay two or three days very still in his mother's strong arms, and recovered. Madame Ristofalo had had it in "fifty-three. " She becamea heroic nurse to many, and saved life after life among the poor. 

The trials of those days enriched John Richling in the acquaintanceshipand esteem of Sister Jane's little lisping rector. And, by the way, noneof those with whom Dr. Sevier dined on that darkest night of Richling'slife became victims. The rector had never encountered the diseasebefore, but when Sister Jane and the banker, and the banker's family andfriends, and thousands of others, fled, he ran toward it, David-like, swordless and armorless. He and Richling were nearly of equal age. Threetimes, four times, and again, they met at dying-beds. They became fondof each other. 

Another brave nurse was Narcisse. Dr. Sevier, it is true, could not getrid of the conviction for years afterward that one victim would havelived had not Narcisse talked him to death. But in general, wherethere was some one near to prevent his telling all his discoveries andinventions, he did good service, and accompanied it with very chivalricemotions. 

"Yesseh, " he said, with a strutting attitude that somehow retained asort of modesty, "I 'ad the gweatess success. Hah! a nuss is a nussthose time'. Only some time' 'e's not. 'Tis accawding to thepovvub, --what is that povvub, now, ag'in?" The proverb did not answerhis call, and he waved it away. "Yesseh, eve'ybody wanting me atonce--couldn' supply the deman'. "

Richling listened to him with new pleasure and rising esteem. 

"You make me envy you, " he exclaimed, honestly. 

"Well, I s'pose you may say so, Mistoo Itchlin, faw I nevva nussa sing-le one w'at din paid me ten dollahs a night. Of co'se!'Consistency, thou awt a jew'l. ' It's juz as the povvub says, 'Allwork an' no pay keep Jack a small boy. ' An' yet, " he hurriedly added, remembering his indebtedness to his auditor, "'tis aztonizhin' 'ow 'tisexpensive to live. I haven' got a picayune of that money pwesently! I'maztonizh' myseff!"

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

"I MUST BE CRUEL ONLY TO BE KIND. "

The plague grew sated and feeble. One morning frost sent a flight of icyarrows into the town, and it vanished. The swarthy girls and lads thatsauntered homeward behind their mothers' cows across the wide suburbanstretches of marshy commons heard again the deep, unbroken, cataractroar of the reawakened city. 

We call the sea cruel, seeing its waters dimple and smile whereyesterday they dashed in pieces the ship that was black with men, women, and children. But what shall we say of those billows of human life, ofwhich we are ourselves a part, that surge over the graves of its owndead with dances and laughter and many a coquetry, with panting chasefor gain and preference, and pious regrets and tender condolences forthe thousands that died yesterday--and need not have died?

Such were the questions Dr. Sevier asked himself as he laid down thenewspaper full of congratulations upon the return of trade's andfashion's boisterous flow, and praises of the deeds of benevolence andmercy that had abounded throughout the days of anguish. 

Certain currents in these human rapids had driven Richling and theDoctor wide apart. But at last, one day, Richling entered the officewith a cheerfulness of countenance something overdone, and indicative tothe Doctor's eye of inward trepidation. 

"Doctor, " he said hurriedly, "preparing to leave the office? It was theonly moment I could command"--

"Good-morning, Richling. "

"I've been trying every day for a week to get down here, " said Richling, drawing out a paper. "Doctor"--with his eyes on the paper, which he hadbegun to unfold. 

"Richling"-- It was the Doctor's hardest voice. Richling looked upat him as a child looks at a thundercloud. The Doctor pointed to thedocument:--

"Is that a subscription paper?"

"Yes. "

"You needn't unfold it, Richling. " The Doctor made a little pushingmotion at it with his open hand. "From whom does it come?"

Richling gave a name. He had not changed color when the Doctor lookedblack, but now he did; for Dr. Sevier smiled. It was terrible. 

"Not the little preacher that lisps?" asked the physician. 

"He lisps sometimes, " said Richling, with resentful subsidence of toneand with dropped eyes, preparing to return the paper to his pocket. 

"Wait, " said the Doctor, more gravely, arresting the movement with hisindex finger. "What is it for?"

"It's for the aid of an asylum overcrowded with orphans in consequenceof the late epidemic. " There was still a tightness in Richling's throat, a faint bitterness in his tone, a spark of indignation in his eye. Butthese the Doctor ignored. He reached out his hand, took the folded papergently from Richling, crossed his knees, and, resting his elbows on themand shaking the paper in a prefatory way, spoke:--

"Richling, in old times we used to go into monasteries; now we subscribeto orphan asylums. Nine months ago I warned this community that if itdidn't take the necessary precautions against the foul contagion thathas since swept over us it would pay for its wicked folly in the livesof thousands and the increase of fatherless and helpless children. Ididn't know it would come this year, but I knew it might come any year. Richling, we deserved it!"

Richling had never seen his friend in so forbidding an aspect. He hadcome to him boyishly elated with the fancied excellence and goodness andbeauty of the task he had assumed, and a perfect confidence that hisnoble benefactor would look upon him with pride and upon the scheme withgenerous favor. When he had offered to present the paper to Dr. Sevierhe had not understood the little rector's marked alacrity in acceptinghis service. Now it was plain enough. He was well-nigh dumfounded. Theresponses that came from him came mechanically, and in the manner of onewho wards off unmerited buffetings from one whose unkindness may not beresented. 

"You can't think that only those died who were to blame?" he asked, helplessly; and the Doctor's answer came back instantly:--

"Ho, no! look at the hundreds of little graves! No, sir. If only thosewho were to blame had been stricken, I should think the Judgment wasn'tfar off. Talk of God's mercy in times of health! There's no greaterevidence of it than to see him, in these awful visitations, refusingstill to discriminate between the innocent and the guilty! Richling, only Infinite Mercy joined to Infinite Power, with infinite command ofthe future, could so forbear!"

Richling could not answer. The Doctor unfolded the paper and began toread: "'God, in his mysterious providence'--O sir!"

"What!" demanded Richling. 

"O sir, what a foul, false charge! There's nothing mysterious about it. We've trampled the book of Nature's laws in the mire of our streets, anddragged her penalties down upon our heads! Why, Richling, "--he shiftedhis attitude, and laid the edge of one hand upon the paper that lay inthe other, with the air of commencing a demonstration, --"you're a Bibleman, eh? Well, yes, I think you are; but I want you never to forget thatthe book of Nature has its commandments, too; and the man who sinsagainst _them_ is a sinner. There's no dispensation of mercy in thatScripture to Jew or Gentile, though the God of Mercy wrote it with hisown finger. A community has got to know those laws and keep them, ortake the consequences--and take them here and now--on thisglobe--_presently_!"

"You mean, then, " said Richling, extending his hand for the return ofthe paper, "that those whose negligence filled the asylums should be theones to subscribe. "

"Yes, " replied the Doctor, "yes!" drew back his hand with the paperstill in it, turned to his desk, opened the list, and wrote. Richling'seyes followed the pen; his heart came slowly up into his throat. 

"Why, Doc--Doctor, that's more than any one else has"--

"They have probably made some mistake, " said Dr. Sevier, rubbing theblotting-paper with his finger. "Richling, do you think it's yourmission to be a philanthropist?"

"Isn't it everybody's mission?" replied Richling. 

"That's not what I asked you. "

"But you ask a question, " said Richling, smiling down upon thesubscription-paper as he folded it, "that nobody would like to answer. "

"Very well, then, you needn't answer. But, Richling, "--he pointedhis long finger to the pocket of Richling's coat, where thesubscription-list had disappeared, --"this sort of work--whether youdistinctly propose to be a philanthropist or not--is right, of course. It's good. But it's the mere alphabet of beneficence. Richling, wheneverphilanthropy takes the _guise_ of philanthropy, look out. Confine yourphilanthropy--you can't do it entirely, but as much as you can--confineyour philanthropy to the _motive_. It's the temptation ofphilanthropists to set aside the natural constitution of societywherever it seems out of order, and substitute some philanthropicmachinery in its place. It's all wrong, Richling. Do as a good doctorwould. Help nature. "

Richling looked down askance, pushed his fingers through his hairperplexedly, drew a deep breath, lifted his eyes to the Doctor's again, smiled incredulously, and rubbed his brow. 

"You don't see it?" asked the physician, in a tone of surprise. 

"O Doctor, "--throwing up a despairing hand, --"we're miles apart. I don'tsee how any work could be nobler. It looks to me"-- But Dr. Sevierinterrupted. 

"--From an emotional stand-point, Richling. Richling, "--he changed hisattitude again, --"if you _want_ to be a philanthropist, becold-blooded. "

Richling laughed outright, but not heartily. 

"Well!" said his friend, with a shrug, as if he dismissed the wholematter. But when Richling moved, as if to rise, he restrained him. "Stop! I know you're in a hurry, but you may tell Reisen to blame me. "

"It's not Reisen so much as it's the work, " replied Richling, butsettled down again in his seat. 

"Richling, human benevolence--public benevolence--in its beginning wasa mere nun on the battle-field, binding up wounds and wiping the dampfrom dying brows. But since then it has had time and opportunity tobecome strong, bold, masculine, potential. Once it had only theknowledge and power to alleviate evil consequences; now it has both theknowledge and the power to deal with evil causes. Now, I say to you, leave this emotional A B C of human charity to nuns and mite societies. It's a good work; let them do it. Give them money, if you can. "

"I see what you mean--I think, " said Richling, slowly, and with apondering eye. 

"I'm glad if you do, " rejoined the Doctor, visibly relieved. 

"But that only throws a heavier responsibility upon strong men, if Iunderstand it, " said Richling, half interrogatively. 

"Certainly! Upon strong spirits, male or female. Upon spirits that candrive the axe low down into the causes of things, again and again andagain, steadily, patiently, until at last some great evil towering abovethem totters and falls crashing to the earth, to be cut to pieces andburned in the fire. Richling, gather fagots for pastime if you like, though it's poor fun; but don't think that's your mission! _Don't_ be afagot-gatherer! What are you smiling at?"

"Your good opinion of me, " answered Richling. "Doctor, I don't believeI'm fit for anything but a fagot-gatherer. But I'm willing to try. "

"Oh, bah!" The Doctor admired such humility as little as it deserved. "Richling, reduce the number of helpless orphans! Dig out the old rootsof calamity! A spoon is not what you want; you want a _mattock_. Reducecrime and vice! Reduce squalor! Reduce the poor man's death-rate!Improve his tenements! Improve his hospitals! Carry sanitation into hisworkshops! Teach the trades! Prepare the poor for possible riches, andthe rich for possible poverty! Ah--ah--Richling, I preach well enough, Ithink, but in practice I have missed it myself! Don't repeat my error!"

"Oh, but you haven't missed it!" cried Richling. 

"Yes, but I have, " said the Doctor. "Here I am, telling you to let yourphilanthropy be cold-blooded; why, I've always been hot-blooded. "

"I like the hot best, " said Richling, quickly. 

"You ought to hate it, " replied his friend. "It's been the root of allyour troubles. Richling, God Almighty is unimpassioned. If he wasn'the'd be weak. You remember Young's line: 'A God all mercy is a Godunjust. ' The time has come when beneficence, to be real, must operatescientifically, not emotionally. Emotion is good; but it must follow, not guide. Here! I'll give you a single instance. Emotion never sellswhere it can give: that is an old-fashioned, effete benevolence. Thenew, the cold-blooded, is incomparably better: it never--to individualor to community--gives where it can sell. Your instincts have appliedthe rule to yourself; apply it to your fellow-man. "

"Ah!" said Richling, promptly, "that's another thing. It's not mybusiness to apply it to them. "

"It _is_ your business to apply it to them. You have no right to doless. "

"And what will men say of me? At least--not that, but"--

The Doctor pointed upward. "They will say, 'I know thee, that thou artan hard man. '" His voice trembled. "But, Richling, " he resumed withfresh firmness, "if you want to lead a long and useful life, --you sayyou do, --you must take my advice; you must deny yourself for a while;you must shelve these fine notions for a time. I tell you once more, youmust endeavor to reëstablish your health as it was before--before theylocked you up, you know. When that is done you can commence right thereif you choose; I wish you would. Give the public--sell would be better, but it will hardly buy--a prison system less atrocious, less destructiveof justice, and less promotive of crime and vice, than the one it has. By-the-by, I suppose you know that Raphael Ristofalo went to prison lastnight again?"

Richling sprang to his feet. "For what? He hasn't"--

"Yes, sir; he has discovered the man who robbed him, and has killedhim. "

Richling started away, but halted as the Doctor spoke again, rising fromhis seat and shaking out his legs. 

"He's not suffering any hardship. He's shrewd, you know, --has madearrangements with the keeper by which he secures very comfortablequarters. The star-chamber, I think they call the room he is in. He'llsuffer very little restraint. Good-day!"

He turned, as Richling left, to get his own hat and gloves. "Yes, " hethought, as he passed slowly downstairs to his carriage, "I have erred. "He was not only teaching, he was learning. To fight evil was not enough. People who wanted help for orphans did not come to him--they sent. Theydrew back from him as a child shrinks from a soldier. Even Alice, hisburied Alice, had wept with delight when he gave her a smile, andtrembled with fear at his frown. To fight evil is not enough. Everybodyseemed to feel as though that were a war against himself. Oh for someone always to understand--never to fear--the frowning good intention ofthe lonely man!

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

"PETTENT PRATE. "

It was about the time, in January, when clerks and correspondents werebeginning to write '59 without first getting it '58, that Dr. Sevier, asone morning he approached his office, noticed with some grim amusement, standing among the brokers and speculators of Carondelet street, thebaker, Reisen. He was earnestly conversing with and bending over asmall, alert fellow, in a rakish beaver and very smart coat, with theblue flowers of modesty bunched saucily in one button-hole. 

Almost at the same moment Reisen saw the Doctor. He called his namealoud, and for all his ungainly bulk would have run directly to thecarriage in the middle of the street, only that the Doctor made believenot to see, and in a moment was out of reach. But when, two or threehours later, the same vehicle came, tipping somewhat sidewise againstthe sidewalk at the Charity Hospital gate, and the Doctor stepped fromit, there stood Reisen in waiting. 

"Toctor, " he said, approaching and touching his hat, "I like to see youa minudt, uff you bleace, shtrict prifut. "

They moved slowly down the unfrequented sidewalk, along the garden wall. 

"Before you begin, Reisen, I want to ask you a question. I've noticedfor a month past that Mr. Richling rides in your bread-carts alongsidethe drivers on their rounds. Don't you know you ought not to requiresuch a thing as that from a person like Mr. Richling? Mr. Richling's agentleman, Reisen, and you make him mount up in those bread-carts, andjump out every few minutes to deliver bread!"

The Doctor's blood was not cold. 

"Vell, now!" drawled the baker, as the corners of his mouth retreatedtoward the back of his neck, "end't tat teh funn'est ting, ennahow! Vhy, tat iss yoost teh ferra ting fot I comin' to shpeak mit you apowdt udt!"He halted and looked at the Doctor to see how this coincidence struckhim; but the Doctor merely moved on. "_I_ toant make him too udt, " hecontinued, starting again; "he cumps to me sindts apowdt two-o-o mundtsaco--ven I shtill feelin' a liddle veak, yet, fun teh yalla-feewa--undtyoost paygs me to let um too udt. 'Mr. Richlun, ' sayss I to him, 'Itoandt kin untershtayndt for vot you vawndts to too sich a ritickliss, Mr. Richlun!' Ovver he sayss, 'Mr. Reisen, '--he alvays callss me'Mister, ' undt tat iss one dting in puttickly vot I alvays tit li-i-ikedapowdt Mr. Richlun, --'Mr. Reisen, ' he sayss, 'toandt you aysk me tereason, ovver yoost let me co abate undt too udt!' Undt I voss a coin'to kiff udt up, alretty; ovver ten cumps in _Missess_ Reisen, --who iss aheap shmarter mayn as fot Reisen iss, I yoost tell you te ectsectlytroot, --and she sayss, 'Reisen, you yoost tell Mr. Richlun, Mr. Richlun, you toadnt coin' to too sich a ritickliss!'"

The speaker paused for effect. 

"Undt ten Mr. Richlun, he talks!--Schweedt?--Oh yendlemuns, toandt saynutting!" The baker lifted up his palm and swung it down against histhigh with a blow that sent the flour out in a little cloud. "I tellyou, Toctor Tseweer, ven tat mayn vawndts to too udt, he kin yoost talkte mo-ust like a Christun fun enna mayn I neffa he-ut in mine li-i-fe!'Missess Reisen, ' he sayss, 'I vawndts to too udt pecause I vawndts totoo udt. ' Vell, how you coin' to arg-y ennating eagval mit Mr. Richlun?So teh upshodt iss he coes owdt in teh prate-cawts tistripputin' teprate!" Reisen threw his arms far behind him, and bowed low to hislistener. 

Dr. Sevier had learned him well enough to beware of interrupting him, lest when he resumed it would be at the beginning again. He made noanswer, and Reisen went on:--

"Bressently"-- He stopped his slow walk, brought forward bothpalms, shrugged, dropped them, bowed, clasped them behind him, broughtthe left one forward, dropped it, then the right one, dropped it also, frowned, smiled, and said:--

"Bressently"--then a long silence--"effrapotty in myetsteplitchmendt"--another long pause--"hef yoost teh same ettechmendtto Mr. Richlun, "--another interval, --"tey hef yoost tso much effectionfur _him_"--another silence--"ass tey hef"--another, with a smile thistime--"fur--te teffle himpselluf!" An oven opened in the baker's face, and emitted a softly rattling expiration like that of a bursted bellows. The Doctor neither smiled nor spoke. Reisen resumed:--

"I seen udt. I seen udt. Ovver I toandt coult untershtayndt udt. Ovverone tay cumps in mine little poy in to me fen te pakers voss allashleep, 'Pap-a, Mr. Richlun sayss you shouldt come into teh offuss. ' Ikumpt in. Mr. Richlun voss tare, shtayndting yoost so--yoost so--py tehshtofe; undt, Toctor Tseweer, I yoost tell you te ectsectly troot, hetoaldt in fife minudts--six minudts--seven minudts, udt may pe--undtshoadt me how effrapotty, high undt low, little undt pick, Tom, Tick, undt Harra, pin ropping me sindts more ass fife years!"

The longest pause of all followed this disclosure. The baker hadgradually backed the Doctor up against the wall, spreading out the wholematter with his great palms turned now upward and now downward, thebulky contents of his high-waisted, barn-door trowsers now bulgedout and now withdrawn, to be protruded yet more a moment later. Herecommenced by holding out his down-turned hand some distance abovethe ground. 

"I yoompt tot hoigh!" He blew his cheeks out, and rose a half-inch offhis heels in recollection of the mighty leap. "Ovver Mr. Richlunsayss, --he sayss, 'Kip shtill, Mr. Reisen;' undt I kibt shtill. "

The baker's auditor was gradually drawing him back toward the hospitalgate; but he continued speaking:--

"Py undt py, vun tay, I kot someting to say to Mr. _Richlun_, yet. UndtI sendts vert to Mr. _Richlun_ tat _he_ shouldt come into teh offuss. Hecumps in. 'Mr. Richlun, ' I sayss, sayss I to him, 'Mr. Richlun, I kotudt!'" The baker shook his finger in Dr. Sevier's face. "'I kot udt, udtlayst, Mr. Richlun! I yoost het a _suspish'n_ sindts teh first tay fot Iemployedt you, ovver now I _know_ I kot udt!' Vell, sir, he yoost turnunso rate ass a flennen shirt!--'Mr. Reisen, ' sayss he to me, 'fot iss udtfot you kot?' Undt sayss I to him, 'Mr. Richlun, udt iss you! Udt is_you_ fot I kot!'"

Dr. Sevier stood sphinx-like, and once more Reisen went on. 

"'Yes, Mr. Richlun, '" still addressing the Doctor as though he were hisbook-keeper, "'I yoost layin, on my pett effra nighdt--effra nighdt, vi-i-ite ava-a-ake! undt in apowdt a veek I make udt owdt ut layst totyou, Mr. Richlun, '--I lookt um shtraight in te eye, undt he lookt meshtraight te same, --'tot, Mr. Richlun, _you_, ' sayss I, 'not dtosefellehs fot pin py mo sindts more ass fife yearss, put _you_, Mr. Richlun, iss teh mayn!--teh mayn fot I--kin _trust_!'" The baker'smiddle parts bent out and his arms were drawn akimbo. Thus for tenseconds. 

"'Undt now, Mr. Richlun, do you kot teh shtrengdt for to shtart a noopissness?'--Pecause, Toctor, udt pin seem to me Mr. Richlun kitten moreundt more shecklun, undt toandt take tot meticine fot you kif um (ovverhe sayss he toos). So ten he sayss to me, 'Mister Reisen, I am yoost sosollut undt shtrong like a pilly-coat! Fot is teh noo pissness?'--'Mr. Richlun, ' sayss I, 've goin' to make pettent prate!'"

"What?" asked the Doctor, frowning with impatience and venturing tointerrupt at last. 

"_Pet-tent prate!_"

The listener frowned heavier and shook his head. 

"_Pettent prate!_"

"Oh! patent bread; yes. Well?"

"Yes, " said Reisen, "prate mate mit a mutcheen; mit copponic-essut kassinto udt ploat pefore udt is paked. I pought teh pettent tiss mawningfun a yendleman in Garontelet shtreedt, alretty, naympt Kknox. "

"And what have I to do with all this?" asked the Doctor, consulting hiswatch, as he had already done twice before. 

"Vell, " said Reisen, spreading his arms abroad, "I yoost taught you liketo herr udt. "

"But what do you want to see me for? What have you kept me all this timeto tell me--or ask me?"

"Toctor, --you ugscooce me--ovver"--the baker held the Doctor by theelbow as he began to turn away--"Toctor Tseweer, "--the great facelighted up with a smile, the large body doubled partly together, and thebroad left hand was held ready to smite the thigh, --"you shouldt see Mr. Richlun ven he fowndt owdt udt is goin' to lower teh price of prate! Itaught he iss goin' to kiss Mississ Reisen!"

CHAPTER XL. 

SWEET BELLS JANGLED. 

Those who knew New Orleans just before the civil war, even though theysaw it only along its riverfront from the deck of some steam-boat, mayeasily recall a large sign painted high up on the side of the old"Triangle Building, " which came to view through the dark web of mastsand cordage as one drew near St. Mary's Market. "Steam Bakery" it read. And such as were New Orleans householders, or by any other chanceenjoyed the experience of making their way in the early morning amongthe hundreds of baskets that on hundreds of elbows moved up and downalong and across the quaint gas-lit arcades of any of the market-houses, must remember how, about this time or a little earlier, there beganto appear on one of the tidiest of bread-stalls in each of thesemarket-houses a new kind of bread. It was a small, densely compactedloaf of the size and shape of a badly distorted brick. When broken, it divided into layers, each of which showed--"teh bprindt of tehkkneading-mutcheen, " said Reisen to Narcisse; "yoost like a tsodacrecker!"

These two persons had met by chance at a coffee-stand one beautifulsummer dawn in one of the markets, --the Tréiné, most likely, --where, perched on high stools at a zinc-covered counter, with the smell offresh blood on the right and of stale fish on the left, they hadfinished half their cup of _café au lait_ before they awoke to theexhilarating knowledge of each other's presence. 

"Yesseh, " said Narcisse, "now since you 'ave wemawk the mention of it, Ithink I have saw that va'iety of bwead. "

"Oh, surely you poundt to a-seedt udt. A uckly little prown dting"--

"But cook well, " said Narcisse. 

"Yayss, " drawled the baker. It was a fact that he had to admit. 

"An' good flou', " persisted the Creole. 

"Yayss, " said the smiling manufacturer. He could not deny that either. 

"An' honness weight!" said Narcisse, planting his empty cup in hissaucer, with the energy of his asservation; "an', Mr. Bison, thass ave'y seldom thing. "

"Yayss, " assented Reisen, "ovver tat prate is mighdy dtry, undtshtickin' in ten dtroat. "

"No, seh!" said the flatterer, with a generous smile. "Egscuse me--Idiffeh fum you. 'Tis a beaucheouz bwead. Yesseh. And eve'y loaf got thename beaucheouzly pwint on the top, with 'Patent'--sich an' sich a time. 'Tis the tooth, Mr. Bison, I'm boun' to congwatu_late_ you on thatbwead. "

"O-o-oh! tat iss not _mine_ prate, " exclaimed the baker. "Tat iss notfun mine etsteplitchmendt. Oh, no! Tatt iss te prate--I'm yoost dtellin'you--tat iss te prate fun tat fellah py teh Sunk-Mary's Morrikit-house!Tat's teh 'shteam prate'. I to-undt know for vot effrapotty puys tatprate annahow! Ovver you yoost vait dtill you see _mine_ prate!"

"Mr. Bison, " said Narcisse, "Mr. Bison, "--he had been trying to stophim and get in a word of his own, but could not, --"I don't know ifyou--Mr. --Mr. Bison, in fact, you din unde'stood me. Can that beposs'ble that you din notiz that I was speaking in my i'ony about thatbwead? Why, of co'se! Thass juz my i'onious cuztom, Mr. Bison. Thass onething I dunno if you 'ave notiz about that 'steam bwead, ' Mr. Bison, butwith me that bwead always stick in my th'oat; an' yet I kin swallow moseanything, in fact. No, Mr. Bison, yo' bwead is deztyned to be the bwead;and I tell you how 'tis with me, I juz gladly eat yo' bwead eve'y time Ikin git it! Mr. Bison, in fact you don't know me ve'y in_tim_itly, butyou will oblige me ve'y much indeed to baw me five dollahs tilltomaw--save me fum d'awing a check!"

The German thrust his hand slowly and deeply into his pocket. "I alvaysslike to oplyche a yendleman, "--he smiled benignly, drew out a toothpick, and added, --"ovver I nivveh bporrah or lend to ennabodda. "

"An' then, " said Narcisse, promptly, "'tis imposs'ble faw anybody to beoffended. Thass the bess way, Mr. Bison. "

"Yayss, " said the baker, "I tink udt iss. " As they were parting, headded: "Ovver you vait dtill you see _mine_ prate!"

"I'll do it, seh!-- And, Mr. Bison, you muzn't think anythingabout that, my not bawing that five dollars fum you, Mr. Bison, becausethat don't make a bit o' dif'ence; an' thass one thing I like about you, Mr. Bison, you don't baw yo' money to eve'y Dick, Tom, an' Hawwy, doyou?"

"No, I dtoandt. Ovver, you yoost vait"--

And certainly, after many vexations, difficulties, and delays, thattook many a pound of flesh from Reisen's form, the pretty, pale-brown, fragrant white loaves of "aërated bread" that issued from the StarBakery in Benjamin street were something pleasant to see, though theydid not lower the price. 

Richling's old liking for mechanical apparatus came into play. He only, in the establishment, thoroughly understood the new process, and couldbe certain of daily, or rather nightly, uniform results. He even madeone or two slight improvements in it, which he contemplated withecstatic pride, and long accounts of which he wrote to Mary. 

In a generous and innocent way Reisen grew a little jealous of hisaccountant, and threw himself into his business as he had not donebefore since he was young, and in the ardor of his emulation ignoredutterly a state of health that was no better because of his great lengthand breadth. 

"Toctor Tseweer!" he said, as the physician appeared one day in hisoffice. "Vell, now, I yoost pet finfty tawllars tat iss Mississ Reisensendts for you tat I'm sick! Ven udt iss not such a dting!" He laughedimmoderately. "Ovver I'm gladt you come, Toctor, ennahow, for you pinyoost in time to see ever'ting runnin'. I vish you yoost come undt seeudt!" He grinned in his old, broad way; but his face was anxious, andhis bared arms were lean. He laid his hand on the Doctor's arm, and thenjerked it away, and tried to blow off the floury print of his fingers. "Come!" He beckoned. "Come; I show you somedting putiful. Toctor, I_vizh_ you come!"

The Doctor yielded. Richling had to be called upon at last to explainthe hidden parts and processes. 

"It's yoost like putt'n' te shpirudt into teh potty, " said the laughingGerman. "Now, tat prate kot life in udt yoost teh same like your ownselluf, Toctor. Tot prate kot yoost so much sense ass Reisen kot. Ovver, Toctor--Toctor"--the Doctor was giving his attention toRichling, who was explaining something--"Toctor, toandt you come hereuxpectin' to see nopoty sick, less-n udt iss Mr. Richlun. " He caughtRichling's face roughly between his hands, and then gave his back acaressing thwack. "Toctor, vot you dtink? Ve goin' teh run prate-cawtsmit copponic-essut kass. Tispense mit hawses!" He laughed long butsoftly, and smote Richling again as the three walked across the bakeryyard abreast. 

"Well?" said Dr. Sevier to Richling, in a low tone, "always workingtoward the one happy end. "

Richling had only time to answer with his eyes, when the baker, alwaysclinging close to them, said, "Yes; if I toandt look oudt yet, he perich pefore Reisen. "

The Doctor looked steadily at Richling, stood still, and said, "Don'thurry. "

But Richling swung playfully half around on his heel, dropped hisglance, and jerked his head sidewise, as one who neither resented theadvice nor took it. A minute later he drew from his breast-pocket asmall, thick letter stripped of its envelope, and handed it to theDoctor, who put it into his pocket, neither of them speaking. The actionshowed practice. Reisen winked one eye laboriously at the Doctor andchuckled. 

"See here, Reisen, " said the Doctor, "I want you to pack your trunk, take the late boat, and go to Biloxi or Pascagoula, and spend a monthfishing and sailing. "

The baker pushed his fingers up under his hat, scratched his head, smiled widely, and pointed at Richling. 

"Sendt him. "

The Doctor went and sat down with Reisen, and used every form ofinducement that could be brought to bear; but the German had but oneanswer: Richling, Richling, not he. The Doctor left a prescription, which the baker took until he found it was making him sleep whileRichling was at work, whereupon he amiably threw it out of his window. 

It was no surprise to Dr. Sevier that Richling came to him a few dayslater with a face all trouble. 

"How are you, Richling? How's Reisen?"

"Doctor, " said Richling, "I'm afraid Mr. Reisen is"--Their eyes met. 

"Insane, " said the Doctor. 

"Yes. "

"Does his wife know whether he has ever had such symptoms before--in hislife?"

"She says he hasn't. "

"I suppose you know his pecuniary condition perfectly; has he money?"

"Plenty. "

"He'll not consent to go away anywhere, I suppose, will he?"

"Not an inch. "

"There's but one sensible and proper course, Richling; he must be takenat once, by force if necessary, to a first-class insane hospital. "

"Why, Doctor, why? Can't we treat him better at home?"

The Doctor gave his head its well-known swing of impatience. "If youwant to be _criminally_ in error try that!"

"I don't want to be in error at all, " retorted Richling. 

"Then don't lose twelve hours that you can save, but send him off assoon as process of court will let you. "

"Will you come at once and see him?" asked Richling, rising up. 

"Yes, I'll be there nearly as soon as you will. Stop; you had betterride with me; I have something special to say. " As the carriage startedoff, the Doctor leaned back in its cushions, folded his arms, and took along, meditative breath. Richling glanced at him and said:--

"We're both thinking of the same person. "

"Yes, " replied the Doctor; "and the same day, too, I suppose: the firstday I ever saw her; the only other time that we ever got into thiscarriage together. Hmm! hmm! With what a fearful speed time flies!"

"Sometimes, " said the yearning husband, and apologized by a laugh. TheDoctor grunted, looked out of the carriage window, and, suddenlyturning, asked:--

"Do you know that Reisen instructed his wife about six months ago, inthe event of his death or disability, to place all her interests in yourhands, and to be guided by your advice in everything?"

"Oh!" exclaimed Richling, "he can't do that! He should have asked myconsent. "

"I suppose he knew he wouldn't get it. He's a cunning simpleton. "

"But, Doctor, if you knew this"--Richling ceased. 

"Six months ago. Why didn't I tell you?" said the physician. "I thoughtI would, Richling, though Reisen bade me not, when he told me; I made nopromise. But time, that you think goes slow, was too fast for me. "

"I shall refuse to serve, " said Richling, soliloquizing aloud. "Don'tyou see, Doctor, the delicacy of the position?"

"Yes, I do; but you don't. Don't you see it would be just as delicate amatter for you to refuse?"

Richling pondered, and presently said, quite slowly:--

"It will look like coming down out of the tree to catch the apples asthey fall, " he said. "Why, " he added with impatience, "it lays me wideopen to suspicion and slander. "

"Does it?" asked the Doctor, heartlessly. "There's nothing remarkable inthat. Did any one ever occupy a responsible position without thoseconditions?"

"But, you know, I have made some unscrupulous enemies by defendingReisen's interests. "

"Um-hmm; what did you defend them for?"

Richling was about to make a reply; but the Doctor wanted none. "Richling, " he said, "the most of men have burrows. They never letanything decoy them so far from those burrows but they can pop into themat a moment's notice. Do you take my meaning?"

"Oh, yes!" said Richling, pleasantly; "no trouble to understand you thistime. I'll not run into any burrow just now. I'll face my duty and thinkof Mary. "

He laughed. 

"Excellent pastime, " responded Dr. Sevier. 

They rode on in silence. 

"As to"--began Richling again, --"as to such matters as these, once a manconfronts the question candidly, there is really no room, that I cansee, for a man to choose: a man, at least, who is always guided byconscience. "

"If there were such a man, " responded the Doctor. 

"True, " said John. 

"But for common stuff, such as you and I are made of, it must sometimesbe terrible. "

"I dare say, " said Richling. "It sometimes requires cold blood to choosearight. "

"As cold as granite, " replied the other. 

They arrived at the bakery. 

"O Doctor, " said Mrs. Reisen, proffering her hand as he entered thehouse, "my poor hussband iss crazy!" She dropped into a chair and burstinto tears. She was a large woman, with a round, red face and triplechin, but with a more intelligent look and a better command of Englishthan Reisen. "Doctor, I want you to cure him ass quick ass possible. "

"Well, madam, of course; but will you do what I say?"

"I will, certain shure. I do it yust like you tellin' me. "

The Doctor gave her such good advice as became a courageous physician. 

A look of dismay came upon her. Her mouth dropped open. "Oh, no, Doctor!" She began to shake her head. "I'll never do tha-at; oh, no;I'll never send my poor hussband to the crazy-house! Oh, no, sir; I'lldo not such a thing!" There was some resentment in her emotion. Hernether lip went up like a crying babe's, and she breathed through hernostrils audibly. 

"Oh, yes, I know!" said the poor creature, turning her face away fromthe Doctor's kind attempts to explain, and lifting it incredulously asshe talked to the wall, --"I know all about it. I'm not a-goin' to put nosich a disgrace on my poor hussband; no, indeed!" She faced aroundsuddenly and threw out her hand to Richling, who leaned against a doortwisting a bit of string between his thumbs. "Why, he wouldn't go, nohow, even if I gave my consents. You caynt coax him out of his roomyet. Oh, no, Doctor! It's my duty to keep him wid me an' try to cure himfirst a little while here at home. That aint no trouble to me; I don'tnever mind no trouble if I can be any help to my hussband. " Sheaddressed the wall again. 

"Well, madam, " replied the physician, with unusual tenderness of tone, and looking at Richling while he spoke, "of course you'll do as youthink best. "

"Oh! my poor Reisen!" exclaimed the wife, wringing her hands. 

"Yes, " said the physician, rising and looking out of the window, "I amafraid it will be ruin to Reisen. "

"No, it won't be such a thing, " said Mrs. Reisen, turning this way andthat in her chair as the physician moved from place to place. "Mr. Richlin', "--turning to him, --"Mr. Richlin' and me kin run the businessyust so good as Reisen. " She shifted her distressed gaze back and forthfrom Richling to the Doctor. The latter turned to Richling:--

"I'll have to leave this matter to you. "

Richling nodded. 

"Where is Reisen?" asked the Doctor. "In his own room, upstairs?" Thethree passed through an inner door. 

CHAPTER XLI. 

MIRAGE. 

"This spoils some of your arrangements, doesn't it?" asked Dr. Sevier ofRichling, stepping again into his carriage. He had already said the kindthings, concerning Reisen, that physicians commonly say when they havelittle hope. "Were you not counting on an early visit to Milwaukee?"

Richling laughed. 

"That illusion has been just a little beyond reach for months. " Hehelped the Doctor shut his carriage-door. 

"But now, of course--" said the physician. 

"Of course it's out of the question, " replied Richling; and the Doctordrove away, with the young man's face in his mind bearing an expressionof simple emphasis that pleased him much. 

Late at night Richling, in his dingy little office, unlocked adrawer, drew out a plump package of letters, and began to read theirpages, --transcripts of his wife's heart, pages upon pages, hundreds ofprecious lines, dates crowding closely one upon another. Often he smiledas his eyes ran to and fro, or drew a soft sigh as he turned the page, and looked behind to see if any one had stolen in and was reading overhis shoulder. Sometimes his smile broadened; he lifted his glance fromthe sheet and fixed it in pleasant revery on the blank wall beforehim. Often the lines were entirely taken up with mere utterances ofaffection. Now and then they were all about little Alice, who hadfretted all the night before, her gums being swollen and tender on theupper left side near the front; or who had fallen violently in love withthe house-dog, by whom, in turn, the sentiment was reciprocated; orwhose eyes were really getting bluer and bluer, and her cheeks fatterand fatter, and who seemed to fear nothing that had existence. And thereader of the lines would rest one elbow on the desk, shut his eyes inone hand, and see the fair young head of the mother drooping tenderlyover that smaller head in her bosom. Sometimes the tone of the lineswas hopefully grave, discussing in the old tentative, interrogativekey the future and its possibilities. Some pages were given toreminiscences, --recollections of all the droll things and all the goodand glad things of the rugged past. Every here and there, but especiallywhere the lines drew toward the signature, the words of longingmultiplied, but always full of sunshine; and just at the end of eachletter love spurned its restraints, and rose and overflowed with sweetconfessions. 

Sometimes these re-read letters did Richling good; not always. Maybe heread them too often. It was only the very next time that the Doctor'scarriage stood before the bakery that the departing physician turnedbefore he reëntered the vehicle, and--whatever Richling had been sayingto him--said abruptly:--

"Richling, are you falling out of love with your work?"

"Why do you ask me that?" asked the young man, coloring. 

"Because I no longer see that joy of deliverance with which you enteredupon this humble calling. It seems to have passed like a lost perfume, Richling. Have you let your toil become a task once more?"

Richling dropped his eyes and pushed the ground with the toe of hisboot. 

"I didn't want you to find that out, Doctor. "

"I was afraid, from the first, it would be so, " said the physician. 

"I don't see why you were. "

"Well, I saw that the zeal with which you first laid hold of your workwas not entirely natural. It was good, but it was partlyartificial, --the more credit to you on that account. But I saw that byand by you would have to keep it up mainly by your sense of necessityand duty. 'That'll be the pinch, ' I said; and now I see it's come. For along time you idealized the work; but at last its real dulness has begunto overcome you, and you're discontented--and with a discontentment thatyou can't justify, can you?"

"But I feel myself growing smaller again. "

"No wonder. Why, Richling, it's the discontent makes that. "

"Oh, no! The discontent makes me long to expand. I never had so muchambition before. But what can I do here? Why, Doctor, I ought to be--Imight be"--

The physician laid a hand on the young man's shoulder. 

"Stop, Richling. Drop those phrases and give us a healthy 'I am, ' and 'Imust, ' and 'I will. ' Don't--_don't_ be like so many! You're not of themany. Richling, in the first illness in which I ever attended your wife, she watched her chance and asked me privately--implored me--not to lether die, for your sake. I don't suppose that tortures could have wrungfrom her, even if she realized it, --which I doubt, --the true reason. Butdon't you feel it? It was because your moral nature needs her so badly. Stop--let me finish. You need Mary back here now to hold you square toyour course by the tremendous power of her timid little 'Don't youthink?' and 'Doesn't it seem?'"

"Doctor, " replied Richling, with a smile of expostulation, "you touchone's pride. "

"Certainly I do. You're willing enough to say that you love her and longfor her, but not that your moral manhood needs her. And yet isn't ittrue?"

"It sha'n't be true, " said Richling, swinging a playful fist. "'Forewarned is forearmed;' I'll not allow it. I'm man enough for that. "He laughed, with a touch of pique. 

"Richling, "--the Doctor laid a finger against his companion's shoulder, preparing at the same time to leave him, --"don't be misled. A man whodoesn't need a wife isn't fit to have one. "

"Why, Doctor, " replied Richling, with sincere amiability, "you're theman of all men I should have picked out to prove the contrary. "

"No, Richling, no. I wasn't fit, and God took her. "

In accordance with Dr. Sevier's request Richling essayed to lift themind of the baker's wife, in the matter of her husband's affliction, tothat plane of conviction where facts, and not feelings, should becomeher motive; and when he had talked until his head reeled, as thoughhe had been blowing a fire, and she would not blaze for all hisblowing--would be governed only by a stupid sentimentality; and whenat length she suddenly flashed up in silly anger and accused him ofinterested motives; and when he had demanded instant retraction orrelease from her employment; and when she humbly and affectionatelyapologized, and was still as deep as ever in hopeless, clingingsentimentalisms, repeating the dictums of her simple and ignorant Germanneighbors and intimates, and calling them in to argue with him, thefeeling that the Doctor's exhortation had for the moment driven awaycame back with more force than ever, and he could only turn again tohis ovens and account-books with a feeling of annihilation. 

"Where am I? What am I?" Silence was the only answer. The separationthat had once been so sharp a pain had ceased to cut, and was bearingdown upon him now with that dull, grinding weight that does the damagein us. 

Presently came another development: the lack of money, that did no harmwhile it was merely kept in the mind, settled down upon the heart. 

"It may be a bad thing to love, but it's a good thing to have, " he said, one day, to the little rector, as this friend stood by him at a cornerof the high desk where Richling was posting his ledger. 

"But not to seek, " said the rector. 

Richling posted an item and shook his head doubtingly. 

"That depends, I should say, on how much one seeks it, and how much ofit he seeks. "

"No, " insisted the clergyman. Richling bent a look of inquiry upon him, and he added:--

"The principle is bad, and you know it, Richling. 'Seek ye first'--youknow the text, and the assurance that follows with it--'all these thingsshall be added'"--

"Oh, yes; but still"--

"'But still!'" exclaimed the little preacher; "why must everybody say'but still'? Don't you see that that 'but still' is the refusal ofChristians to practise Christianity?"

Richling looked, but said nothing; and his friend hoped the word hadtaken effect. But Richling was too deeply bitten to be cured by one ortwo good sayings. After a moment he said:--

"I used to wonder to see nearly everybody struggling to be rich, but Idon't now. I don't justify it, but I understand it. It's flight fromoblivion. It's the natural longing to be seen and felt. "

"Why isn't it enough to be felt?" asked the other. "Here, you make breadand sell it. A thousand people eat it from your hand every day. Isn'tthat something?"

"Yes; but it's all the bread. The bread's everything; I'm nothing. I'mnot asked to do or to be. I may exist or not; there will be bread allthe same. I see my remark pains you, but I can't help it. You've nevertried the thing. You've never encountered the mild contempt that peoplein ease pay to those who pursue the 'industries. ' You've never sufferedthe condescension of rank to the ranks. You don't know the smart ofbeing only an arithmetical quantity in a world of achievements andpossessions. "

"No, " said the preacher, "maybe I haven't. But I should say you are justthe sort of man that ought to come through all that unsoured and unhurt. Richling, "--he put on a lighter mood, --"you've got a moral indigestion. You've accustomed yourself to the highest motives, and now these newnotions are not the highest, and you know and feel it. They don'tnourish you. They don't make you happy. Where are your old sentiments?What's become of them?"

"Ah!" said Richling, "I got them from my wife. And the supply's nearlyrun out. "

"Get it renewed!" said the little man, quickly, putting on his hat andextending a farewell hand. "Excuse me for saying so. I didn't intend it;I dropped in to ask you again the name of that Italian whom you visit atthe prison, --the man I promised you I'd go and talk to. Yes--Ristofalo;that's it. Good-by. "

That night Richling wrote to his wife. What he wrote goes not down here;but he felt as he wrote that his mood was not the right one, and whenMary got the letter she answered by first mail:--

 "Will you not let me come to you? Is it not surely best? Say but the word, and I'll come. It will be the steamer to Chicago, railroad to Cairo, and a St. Louis boat to New Orleans. Alice will be both company and protection, and no burden at all. O my beloved husband! I am just ungracious enough to think, some days, that these times of separation are the hardest of all. When we were suffering sickness and hunger together--well, we were _together_. Darling, if you'll just say come, I'll come in an _instant_. Oh, how gladly! Surely, with what you tell me you've saved, and with your place so secure to you, can't we venture to begin again? Alice and I can live with you in the bakery. O my husband! if you but say the word, a little time--a few days will bring us into your arms. And yet, do not yield to my impatience; I trust your wisdom, and know that what you decide will be best. Mother has been very feeble lately, as I have told you; but she seems to be improving, and now I see what I've half suspected for a long time, and ought to have seen sooner, that my husband--my dear, dear husband--needs me most; and I'm coming--I'm _coming_, John, if you'll only say come. 

 Your loving MARY. "

CHAPTER XLII. 

RISTOFALO AND THE RECTOR. 

Be Richling's feelings what they might, the Star Bakery shone in theretail firmament of the commercial heavens with new and growingbrilliancy. There was scarcely time to talk even with the tough littlerector who hovers on the borders of this history, and he might havebecome quite an alien had not Richling's earnest request made him oneday a visitor, as we have seen him express his intention of being, inthe foul corridors of the parish prison, and presently the occupant of abroken chair in the apartment apportioned to Raphael Ristofalo and twoother prisoners. "Easy little tasks you cut out for your friends, " saidthe rector to Richling when next they met. "I got preached _to_--not tosay edified. I'll share my edification with you!" He told hisexperience. 

It was a sinister place, the prison apartment. The hand of KateRistofalo had removed some of its unsightly conditions and disguisedothers; but the bounds of the room, walls, ceiling, windows, floor, still displayed, with official unconcern, the grime and decay that iscommonly thought good enough for men charged, rightly or wrongly, withcrime. 

The clergyman's chair was in the centre of the floor. Ristofalo satfacing him a little way off on the right. A youth of nineteen sat tippedagainst the wall on the left, and a long-limbed, big-boned, red-shirtedyoung Irishman occupied a poplar table, hanging one of his legs acrossa corner of it and letting the other down to the floor. Ristofaloremarked, in the form of polite acknowledgment, that the rector hadpreached to the assembled inmates of the prison on the Sunday previous. 

"Did I say anything that you thought was true?" asked the minister. 

The Italian smiled in the gentle manner that never failed him. 

"Didn't listen much, " he said. He drew from a pocket of his blackvelveteen pantaloons a small crumpled tract. It may have been a favoriteone with the clergyman, for the youth against the wall produced itscounterpart, and the man on the edge of the table lay back on his elbow, and, with an indolent stretch of the opposite arm and both legs, drew athird one from a tin cup that rested on a greasy shelf behind him. TheIrishman held his between his fingers and smirked a little toward thefloor. Ristofalo extended his toward the visitor, and touched thecaption with one finger: "Mercy offered. "

"Well, " asked the rector, pleasantly, "what's the matter with that?"

"Is no use yeh. Wrong place--this prison. "

"Um-hm, " said the tract-distributor, glancing down at the leaf andsmoothing it on his knee while he took time to think. "Well, whyshouldn't mercy be offered here?"

"No, " replied Ristofalo, still smiling; "ought offer justice first. "

"Mr. Preacher, " asked the young Irishman, bringing both legs to thefront, and swinging them under the table, "d'ye vote?"

"Yes; I vote. "

"D'ye call yerself a cidizen--with a cidizen's rights an' djuties?"

"I do. "

"That's right. " There was a deep sea of insolence in the smooth-faced, red-eyed smile that accompanied the commendation. "And how manny timeshave ye bean in this prison?"

"I don't know; eight or ten times. That rather beats you, doesn't it?"

Ristofalo smiled, the youth uttered a high rasping cackle, and theIrishman laughed the heartiest of all. 

"A little, " he said; "a little. But nivver mind. Ye say ye've bin hereeight or tin times; yes. Well, now, will I tell ye what I'd do afore andiver I'd kim back here ag'in, --if I was you now? Will I tell ye?"

"Well, yes, " replied the visitor, amiably; "I'd like to know. "

"Well, surr, I'd go to the mair of this city and to the judge ofthe criminal coort, and to the gov'ner of the Sta-ate, and to theligislatur, if needs be, and I'd say, 'Gintlemin, I can't go back tothat prison! There is more crimes a-being committed by the peopleoutside ag'in the fellies in theyre than--than--than the--the fellies intheyre has committed ag'in the people! I'm ashamed to preach theyre! I'mafeered to do ud!'" The speaker slipped off the table, upon his feet. "'There's murrder a-goun' on in theyre! There's more murrder a-bein'done in theyre nor there is outside! Justice is a-bein' murdered theyreivery hour of day and night!'"

He brandished his fist with the last words, but dropped it at a glancefrom Ristofalo, and began to pace the floor along his side of the room, looking with a heavy-browed smile back and forth from one fellow-captiveto the other. He waited till the visitor was about to speak, and theninterrupted, pointing at him suddenly:--

"Ye're a Prodez'n preacher! I'll bet ye fifty dollars ye have a richcherch! Full of leadin' cidizens!"

"You're correct. "

"Well, I'd go an'--an'--an' I'd say, 'Dawn't ye nivver ax me to go intothat place ag'in a-pallaverin' about mercy, until ye gid ud chayngedfrom the hell on earth it is to a house of justice, wheyre min gits thesintences that the coorts decrees!' _I_ don't complain in here. _He_don't complain, " pointing to Ristofalo; "ye'll nivver hear a complaintfrom him. But go look in that yaird!" He threw up both hands with agrimace of disgust--"Aw!"--and ceased again, but continued his walk, looked at his fellows, and resumed:--

"_I_ listened to yer sermon. I heerd ye talkin' about the souls of uz. Do ye think ye kin make anny of thim min believe ye cayre for the soulsof us whin ye do nahthing for the _bodies_ that's before yer eyestlothed in rrags and stairved, and made to sleep on beds of brick andstone, and to receive a hundred abuses a day that was nivver intended tobe a pairt of _anny_body's sintince--and manny of'm not tried yit, an'nivver a-goun' to have annythin' proved ag'in 'm? How _can_ ye comeofferin' uz merrcy? For ye don't come out o' the tloister, like a poorCat'lic priest or Sister. Ye come rright out o' the hairt o' thecommunity that's a-committin' more crimes ag'in uz in here than all ofus together has iver committed outside. Aw!--Bring us a better airticleof yer own justice ferst--I doan't cayre how _crool_ it is, so ut's_justice_--an' _thin_ preach about God's mercy. I'll listen to ye. "

Ristofalo had kept his eyes for the most of the time on the floor, smiling sometimes more and sometimes less. Now, however, he raised themand nodded to the clergyman. He approved all that had been said. TheIrishman went and sat again on the table and swung his legs. Thevisitor was not allowed to answer before, and must answer now. He wouldhave been more comfortable at the rectory. 

"My friend, " he began, "suppose, now, I should say that you are prettynearly correct in everything you've said?"

The prisoner, who, with hands grasping the table's edge on either sideof him, was looking down at his swinging brogans, simply lifted hislurid eyes without raising his head, and nodded. "It would be right, " heseemed to intimate, "but nothing great. "

"And suppose I should say that I'm glad I've heard it, and that I evenintend to make good use of it?"

His hearer lifted his head, better pleased, but not without somebetrayal of the distrust which a lower nature feels toward thecondescensions of a higher. The preacher went on:--

"Would you try to believe what I have to add to that?"

"Yes, I'd try, " replied the Irishman, looking facetiously from the youthto Ristofalo. But this time the Italian was grave, and turned his glanceexpectantly upon the minister, who presently replied:--

"Well, neither my church nor the community has sent me here at all. "

The Irishman broke into a laugh. 

"Did God send ye?" He looked again to his comrades, with an expandedgrin. The youth giggled. The clergyman met the attack with serenity, waited a moment and then responded:--

"Well, in one sense, I don't mind saying--yes. "

"Well, " said the Irishman, still full of mirth, and swinging his legswith fresh vigor, "he'd aht to 'a' sint ye to the ligislatur. "

"I'm in hopes he will, " said the little rector; "but"--checking theIrishman's renewed laughter--"tell me why should other men's injusticein here stop me from preaching God's mercy?"

"Because it's pairt _your_ injustice! Ye _do_ come from yer cherch, an'ye _do_ come from the community, an' ye can't deny ud, an' ye'd ahtn'tto be comin' in here with yer sweet tahk and yer eyes tight shut to thecrimes that's bein' committed ag'in uz for want of an outcry against 'emby you preachers an' prayers an' thract-disthributors. " The speakerceased and nodded fiercely. Then a new thought occurred to him, and hebegan again abruptly:--

"Look ut here! Ye said in yer serrmon that as to Him"--he pointedthrough the broken ceiling--"we're all criminals alike, didn't ye?"

"I did, " responded the preacher, in a low tone. 

"Yes, " said Ristofalo; and the boy echoed the same word. 

"Well, thin, what rights has some to be out an' some to be in?"

"Only one right that I know of, " responded the little man; "still thatis a good one. "

"And that is--?" prompted the Irishman. 

"Society's right to protect itself. "

"Yes, " said the prisoner, "to protect itself. Thin what right has it tokeep a prison like this, where every man an' woman as goes out of udgoes out a blacker devil, and cunninger devil, and a more dangerousdevil, nor when he came in? Is that anny protection? Why shouldn't sucha prison tumble down upon the heads of thim as built it? Say. "

"I expect you'll have to ask somebody else, " said the rector. He rose. 

"Ye're not a-goun'!" exclaimed the Irishman, in broad affectation ofsurprise. 

"Yes. "

"Ah! come, now! Ye're not goun' to be beat that a-way by a wild Mick o'the woods?" He held himself ready for a laugh. 

"No, I'm coming back, " said the smiling clergyman, and the laugh came. 

"That's right! But"--as if the thought was a sudden one--"I'll be deadby thin, willn't I? Of coorse I will. "

"Yes?" rejoined the clergyman. "How's that?"

The Irishman turned to the Italian. 

"Mr. Ristofalo, we're a-goin to the pinitintiary, aint we?"

Ristofalo nodded. 

"Of coorse we air! Ah! Mr. Preechur, that's the place!"

"Worse than this?"

"Worse? Oh, no! It's better. This is slow death, but that's quick andshort--and sure. If it don't git ye in five year', ye're an allygatur. This place? It's heaven to ud!"

CHAPTER XLIII. 

SHALL SHE COME OR STAY?

Richling read Mary's letter through three times without a smile. Thefeeling that he had prompted the missive--that it was partly his--stoodbetween him and a tumult of gladness. And yet when he closed his eyes hecould see Mary, all buoyancy and laughter, spurning his claim to eachand every stroke of the pen. It was all hers, all!

As he was slowly folding the sheet Mrs. Reisen came in upon him. It wasone of those excessively warm spring evenings that sometimes make NewOrleans fear it will have no May. The baker's wife stood with herimmense red hands thrust into the pockets of an expansive pinafore, andher three double chins glistening with perspiration. She bade hermanager a pleasant good-evening. 

Richling inquired how she had left her husband. 

"Kviet, Mr. Richlin', kviet. Mr. Richlin', I pelief Reisen kittinpetter. If he don't gittin' better, how come he'ss every day a littlemore kvieter, and sit' still and don't say nutting to nobody?"

"Mrs. Reisen, my wife is asking me to send for her"--Richling gave thefolded letter a little shake as he held it by one corner--"to come downhere and live again. "

"Now, Mr. Richlin'?"

"Yes. "

"Well, I will shwear!" She dropped into a seat. "Right in de bekinningo' summer time! Vell, vell, vell! And you told me Mrs. Richling is asentsible voman! Vell, I don't belief dat I efer see a young voman w'ataint de pickest kind o' fool apowt her hussbandt. Vell, vell!--And shecomin' down heah 'n' choost kittin' all your money shpent, 'n' den hermudter kittin' vorse 'n' she got 'o go pack akin!"

"Why, Mrs. Reisen, " exclaimed Richling, warmly. "you speak as if youdidn't want her to come. " He contrived to smile as he finished. 

"Vell, --of--course! _You_ don't vant her to come, do you?"

Richling forced a laugh. 

"Seems to me 'twould be natural if I did, Mrs. Reisen. Didn't thepreacher say, when we were married, 'Let no man put asunder'?"

"Oh, now, Mr. Richlin', dere aindt nopotty a-koin' to put youunder!--'less-n it's your vife. Vot she want to come down for? Don't Itakin' koot care you?" There was a tear in her eye as she went out. 

An hour or so later the little rector dropped in. 

"Richling, I came to see if I did any damage the last time I was here. My own words worried me. "

"You were afraid, " responded Richling, "that I would understand you torecommend me to send for my wife. "

"Yes. "

"I didn't understand you so. "

"Well, my mind's relieved. "

"Mine isn't, " said Richling. He laid down his pen and gathered hisfingers around one knee. "Why shouldn't I send for her?"

"You will, some day. "

"But I mean now. "

The clergyman shook his head pleasantly. 

"I don't think that's what you mean. "

"Well, let that pass. I know what I do mean. I mean to get out of thisbusiness. I've lived long enough with these savages. " A wave of his handindicated the whole _personnel_ of the bread business. 

"I would try not to mind their savageness, Richling, " said the littlepreacher, slowly. "The best of us are only savages hid under a harness. If we're not, we've somehow made a loss. " Richling looked at him withamused astonishment, but he persisted. "I'm in earnest! We've hadsomething refined out of us that we shouldn't have parted with. Now, there's Mrs. Reisen. I like her. She's a good woman. If the savage canstand you, why can't you stand the savage?"

"Yes, true enough. Yet--well, I must get out of this, anyway. "

The little man clapped him on the shoulder. 

"_Climb_ out. See here, you Milwaukee man, "--he pushed Richlingplayfully, --"what are _you_ doing with these Southern notions of oursabout the 'yoke of menial service, ' anyhow?"

"I was not born in Milwaukee, " said Richling. 

"And you'll not die with these notions, either, " retorted the other. "Look here, I am going. Good-by. You've got to get rid of them, youknow, before your wife comes. I'm glad you are not going to send for hernow. "

"I didn't say I wasn't. "

"I wouldn't. "

"Oh, you don't know what you'd do, " said Richling. 

The little preacher eyed him steadily for a moment, and then slowlyreturned to where he still sat holding his knee. 

They had a long talk in very quiet tones. At the end the rectorasked:--

"Didn't you once meet Dr. Sevier's two nieces--at his house?"

"Yes, " said Richling. 

"Do you remember the one named Laura?--the dark, flashing one?"

"Yes. "

"Well, --oh, pshaw! I could tell you something funny, but I don't care todo it. "

What he did not care to tell was, that she had promised him five yearsbefore to be his wife any day when he should say the word. In all thattime, and this very night, one letter, one line almost, and he couldhave ended his waiting; but he was not seeking his own happiness. 

They smiled together. "Well, good-by again. Don't think I'm always goingto persecute you with my solicitude. "

"I'm not worth it, " said Richling, slipping slowly down from his highstool and letting the little man out into the street. 

A little way down the street some one coming out of a dark alley just intime to confront the clergyman extended a hand in salutation. 

"Good-evenin', Mr. Blank. "

He took the hand. It belonged to a girl of eighteen, bareheaded andbarefooted, holding in the other hand a small oil-can. Her eyes lookedsteadily into his. 

"You don't know me, " she said, pleasantly. 

"Why, yes, now I remember you. You're Maggie. "

"Yes, " replied the girl. "Don't you recollect--in the mission-school?Don't you recollect you married me and Larry? That's two years ago. " Shealmost laughed out with pleasure. 

"And where's Larry?"

"Why, don't you recollect? He's on the sloop-o'-war _Preble_. " Then sheadded more gravely: "I aint seen him in twenty months. But I know he'sall right. I aint a-scared about _that_--only if he's alive and well;yes, sir. Well, good-evenin', sir. Yes, sir; I think I'll come to themission nex' Sunday--and I'll bring the baby, will I? All right, sir. Well, so long, sir. Take care of yourself, sir. "

What a word that was! It echoed in his ear all the way home: "Take careof _yourself_. " What boast is there for the civilization that refinesaway the unconscious heroism of the unfriended poor?

He was glad he had not told Richling all his little secret. But Richlingfound it out later from Dr. Sevier. 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

WHAT WOULD YOU DO?

Three days Mary's letter lay unanswered. About dusk of the third, asRichling was hurrying across the yard of the bakery on some errandconnected with the establishment, a light touch was laid upon hisshoulder; a peculiar touch, which he recognized in an instant. He turnedin the gloom and exclaimed, in a whisper:--

"Why, Ristofalo!"

"Howdy?" said Raphael, in his usual voice. 

"Why, how did you get out?" asked Richling. "Have you escaped?"

"No. Just come out for little air. Captain of the prison and me. Notcaptain, exactly; one of the keepers. Goin' back some time to-night. " Hestood there in his old-fashioned way, gently smiling, and looking asimmovable as a piece of granite. "Have you heard from wife lately?"

"Yes, " said Richling. "But--why--I don't understand. You and the jailerout together?"

"Yes, takin' a little stroll 'round. He's out there in the street. Youcan see him on door-step 'cross yonder. Pretty drunk, eh?" The Italian'ssmile broadened for a moment, then came back to its usual self again. "Ijus' lef' Kate at home. Thought I'd come see you a little while. "

"Return calls?" suggested Richling. 

"Yes, return call. Your wife well?"

"Yes. But--why, this is the drollest"-- He stopped short, for theItalian's gravity indicated his opinion that there had been enoughamusement shown. "Yes, she's well, thank you. By-the-by, what do youthink of my letting her come out here now and begin life over again?Doesn't it seem to you it's high time, if we're ever going to do it atall?"

"What you think?" asked Ristofalo. 

"Well, now, you answer my question first. "

"No, you answer me first. "

"I can't. I haven't decided. I've been three days thinking about it. Itmay seem like a small matter to hesitate so long over"--Richling pausedfor his hearer to dissent. 

"Yes, " said Ristofalo, "pretty small. " His smile remained the same. "Sheask you? Reckon you put her up to it, eh?"

"I don't see why you should reckon that, " said Richling, with resentfulcoldness. 

"I dunno, " said the Italian; "thought so--that's the way fellows dosometimes. " There was a pause. Then he resumed: "I wouldn't let her comeyet. Wait. "

"For what?"

"See which way the cat goin' to jump. "

Richling laughed unpleasantly. 

"What do you mean by that?" he inquired. 

"We goin' to have war, " said Raphael Ristofalo. 

"Ho! ho! ho! Why, Ristofalo, you were never more mistaken in your life!"

"I dunno, " replied the Italian, sticking in his tracks, "think it prettycertain. I read all the papers every day; nothin' else to do in parishprison. Think we see war nex' winter. "

"Ristofalo, a man of your sort can hardly conceive the amount ofbluster this country can stand without coming to blows. We Americans arenot like you Italians. "

"No, " responded Ristofalo, "not much like. " His smile changedpeculiarly. "Wasn't for Kate, I go to Italia now. "

"Kate and the parish prison, " said Richling. 

"Oh!"--the old smile returned, --"I get out that place any time I want. "

"And you'd join Garibaldi, I suppose?" The news had just come ofGaribaldi in Sicily. 

"Yes, " responded the Italian. There was a twinkle deep in his eyes as headded: "I know Garibaldi. "

"Indeed!"

"Yes. Sailed under him when he was ship-cap'n. He knows me. "

"And I dare say he'd remember you, " said Richling, with enthusiasm. 

"He remember me, " said the quieter man. "Well, --must go. Good-e'nin'. Better tell yo' wife wait a while. "

"I--don't know. I'll see. Ristofalo"--

"What?"

"I want to quit this business. "

"Better not quit. Stick to one thing. "

"But you never did that. You never did one thing twice in succession. "

"There's heap o' diff'ence. "

"I don't see it. What is it?"

But the Italian only smiled and shrugged, and began to move away. In amoment he said:--

"You see, Mr. Richlin', you sen' for yo' wife, you can't risk change o'business. You change business, you can't risk sen' for yo' wife. Well, good-night. "

Richling was left to his thoughts. Naturally they were of the man whomhe still saw, in his imagination, picking his jailer up off thedoor-step and going back to prison. Who could say that this man mightnot any day make just such a lion's leap into the world's arena asGaribaldi had made, and startle the nations as Garibaldi had done? Whatwas that red-shirted scourge of tyrants that this man might not be?Sailor, soldier, hero, patriot, prisoner! See Garibaldi: despising therestraints of law; careless of the simplest conventionalities that go tomake up an honest gentleman; doing both right and wrong--like a lion;everything in him leonine. All this was in Ristofalo's reach. It was allbeyond Richling's. Which was best, the capability or the incapability?It was a question he would have liked to ask Mary. 

Well, at any rate, he had strength now for one thing--"one pretty smallthing. " He would answer her letter. He answered it, and wrote: "Don'tcome; wait a little while. " He put aside all those sweet lovers'pictures that had been floating before his eyes by night and day, andbade her stay until the summer, with its risks to health, should havepassed, and she could leave her mother well and strong. 

It was only a day or two afterward that he fell sick. It was provokingto have such a cold and not know how he caught it, and to have it insuch fine weather. He was in bed some days, and was robbed of much sleepby a cough. Mrs. Reisen found occasion to tell Dr. Sevier of Mary'sdesire, as communicated to her by "Mr. Richlin', " and of the advice shehad given him. 

"And he didn't send for her, I suppose. "

"No, sir. "

"Well, Mrs. Reisen, I wish you had kept your advice to yourself. " TheDoctor went to Richling's bedside. 

"Richling, why don't you send for your wife?"

The patient floundered in the bed and drew himself up on his pillow. 

"O Doctor, just listen!" He smiled incredulously. "Bring that littlewoman and her baby down here just as the hot season is beginning?" Hethought a moment, and then continued: "I'm afraid, Doctor, you'represcribing for homesickness. Pray don't tell me that's my ailment. "

"No, it's not. You have a bad cough, that you must take care of; butstill, the other is one of the counts in your case, and you know howquickly Mary and--the little girl would cure it. "

Richling smiled again. 

"I can't do that, Doctor; when I go to Mary, or send for her, on accountof homesickness, it must be hers, not mine. "

"Well, Mrs. Reisen, " said the Doctor, outside the street door, "I hopeyou'll remember my request. "

"I'll tdo udt, Dtoctor, " was the reply, so humbly spoken that herepented half his harshness. 

"I suppose you've often heard that 'you can't make a silk purse of asow's ear, ' haven't you?" he asked. 

"Yes; I pin right often heeard udt. " She spoke as though she was notwedded to any inflexible opinion concerning the proposition. 

"Well, Mrs. Reisen, as a man once said to me, 'neither can you make asow's ear out of a silk purse. '"

"Vell, to be cettaintly!" said the poor woman, drawing not the shadow ofan inference; "how kin you?"

"Mr. Richling tells me he will write to Mrs. Richling to prepare to comedown in the fall. "

"Vell, " exclaimed the delighted Mrs. Reisen, in her husband's bestmanner, "t'at's te etsectly I atwised him!" And, as the Doctor droveaway, she rubbed her mighty hands around each other in restoredcomplacency. Two or three days later she had the additional pleasure ofseeing Richling up and about his work again. It was upon her motherlyurging that he indulged himself, one calm, warm afternoon, in a walk inthe upper part of the city. 

CHAPTER XLV. 

NARCISSE WITH NEWS. 

It was very beautiful to see the summer set in. Trees everywhere. Youlooked down a street, and, unless it were one of the two broad avenueswhere the only street-cars ran, it was pretty sure to be so overarchedwith boughs that, down in the distance, there was left but a narrowstreak of vivid blue sky in the middle. Well-nigh every house had itsgarden, as every garden its countless flowers. The dark orange began toshow its growing weight of fruitfulness, and was hiding in its thornyinterior the nestlings of yonder mocking-bird, silently foraging down inthe sunny grass. The yielding branches of the privet were bowed downwith their plumy panicles, and swayed heavily from side to side, drunkwith gladness and plenty. Here the peach was beginning to droop over awall. There, and yonder again, beyond, ranks of fig-trees, that had somuffled themselves in their foliage that not the nakedness of a twigshowed through, had yet more figs than leaves. The crisp, cool masses ofthe pomegranate were dotted with scarlet flowers. The cape jasmine worehundreds of her own white favors, whose fragrance forerun the sight. Every breath of air was a new perfume. Roses, an innumerable host, ran afairy riot about all grounds, and clambered from the lowest door-step tothe highest roof. The oleander, wrapped in one great garment of redblossoms, nodded in the sun, and stirred and winked in the faintstirrings of the air The pale banana slowly fanned herself with her ownbroad leaf. High up against the intense sky, its hard, burnished foliageglittering in the sunlight, the magnolia spread its dark boughs, adornedwith their queenly white flowers. Not a bird nor an insect seemedunmated. The little wren stood and sung to his sitting wife his loud, ecstatic song, made all of her own name, --Matilda, Urilda, Lucinda, Belinda, Adaline, Madaline, Caroline, or Melinda, as the case mightbe, --singing as though every bone of his tiny body were a golden flute. The hummingbirds hung on invisible wings, and twittered with delight asthey feasted on woodbine and honeysuckle. The pigeon on the roof-treecooed and wheeled about his mate, and swelled his throat, andtremulously bowed and walked with a smiting step, and arched hispurpling neck, and wheeled and bowed and wheeled again. Pairs ofbutterflies rose in straight upward flight, fluttered about each otherin amorous strife, and drifted away in the upper air. And out of everygarden came the voices of little children at play, --the blessedest soundon earth. 

"O Mary, Mary! why should two lovers live apart on this beautiful earth?Autumn is no time for mating. Who can tell what autumn will bring?"

The revery was interrupted. 

"Mistoo Itchlin, 'ow you enjoyin' yo' 'ealth in that beaucheouz weathehjuz at the pwesent? Me, I'm well. Yes, I'm always well, in fact. At thesame time nevvatheless, I fine myseff slightly sad. I s'pose 'tisnatu'al--a man what love the 'itings of Lawd By'on as much as me. Youknow, of co'se, the melancholic intelligens?"

"No, " said Richling; "has any one"--

"Lady By'on, seh. Yesseh. 'In the mids' of life'--you know where we ah, Mistoo Itchlin, I su-pose?"

"Is Lady Byron dead?"

"Yesseh. " Narcisse bowed solemnly. "Gone, Mistoo Itchlin. Since theseventeenth of last; yesseh. 'Kig the bucket, ' as the povvub say. " Heshowed an extra band of black drawn neatly around his new straw hat. "Ithought it but p'opeh to put some moaning--as a species of twibute. " Herestored the hat to his head. "You like the tas'e of that, MistooItchlin?"

Richling could but confess the whole thing was delicious. 

"Yo humble servan', seh, " responded the smiling Creole, with a flatteredbow. Then, assuming a gravity becoming the historian, he said:--

"In fact, 'tis a gweat mistake, that statement that Lawd By'on evvaqua'led with his lady, Mistoo Itchlin. But I s'pose you know 'tis but aslandeh of the pwess. Yesseh. As, faw instance, thass anotheh slandeh ofthe pwess that the delegates qua'led ad the Chawleston convention. They only pwetend to qua'l; so, by that way, to mizguide thoseA_bol_ish-nists. Mistoo Itchlin, I am p'ojecting to 'ite some obitua''emawks about that Lady By'on, but I scass know w'etheh to 'ite them inthe poetic style aw in the p'osaic. Which would you conclude, MistooItchlin?"

Richling reflected with downcast eyes. 

"It seems to me, " he said, when he had passed his hand across his mouthin apparent meditation and looked up, --"seems to me I'd conclude both, without delay. "

"Yes? But accawding to what fawmule, Mistoo Itchlin? 'Ay, 'tis theh isthe 'ub, ' in fact, as Lawd By'on say. Is it to migs the two style' thatyou advise?"

"That's the favorite method, " replied Richling. 

"Well, I dunno 'ow 'tis, Mistoo Itchlin, but I fine the moze facil'ty inthe poetic. 'Tis t'ue, in the poetic you got to look out concehning the_'ime_. You got to keep the eye skin' faw it, in fact. But in thep'osaic, on the cont'a-ay, 'tis juz the opposite; you got to keepthe eye skin' faw the _sense_. Yesseh. Now, if you migs the twostyle'--well--'ow's that, Mistoo Itchlin, if you migs them? Seem' tome I dunno. "

"Why, don't you see?" asked Richling. "If you mix them, you avoid bothnecessities. You sail triumphantly between Scylla and Charybdis withoutso much as skinning your eye. "

Narcisse looked at him a moment with a slightly searching glance, dropped his eyes upon his own beautiful feet, and said, in a meditativetone:--

"I believe you co'ect. " But his smile was gone, and Richling saw he hadventured too far. 

"I wish my wife were here, " said Richling; "she might give you betteradvice than I. "

"Yes, " replied Narcisse, "I believe you co'ect ag'in, Mistoo Itchlin. 'Tis but since yeste'd'y that I jus appen to hea' Dr. Seveeah d'op asaying 'esembling to that. Yesseh, she's a v'ey 'emawkable, MistooItchlin. "

"Is that what Dr. Sevier said?" Richling began to fear an ambush. 

"No, seh. What the Doctah say--'twas me'ly to 'emawk in his jocoseway--you know the Doctah's lill callous, jocose way, Mistoo Itchlin. "

He waved either hand outward gladsomely. 

"Yes, " said Richling, "I've seen specimens of it. "

"Yesseh. He was ve'y complimenta'y, in fact, the Doctah. 'Tis thetrooth. He says, 'She'll make a man of Witchlin if anythin' can. ' Juz inhis jocose way, you know. "

The Creole's smile had returned in concentrated sweetness. He stoodsilent, his face beaming with what seemed his confidence that Richlingwould be delighted. Richling recalled the physician's saying concerningthis very same little tale-bearer, --that he carried his nonsense on topand his good sense underneath. 

"Dr. Sevier said that, did he?" asked Richling, after a time. 

"'Tis the vehbatim, seh. Convussing to yo' 'eve'end fwend. You can askhim; he will co'obo'ate me in fact. Well, Mistoo Itchlin, it supp'ise meyou not tickle at that. Me, I may say, I wish _I_ had a wife to make aman out of _me_. "

"I wish you had, " said Richling. But Narcisse smiled on. 

"Well, _au 'evoi'_. " He paused an instant with an earnest face. "Pehchance I'll meet you this evening, Mistoo Itchlin? Faw doubtless, like myseff, you will assist at the gweat a-ally faw the Union, theConst'ution, and the enfo'cemen' of the law. Dr. Seveeah will addwess. "

"I don't know that I care to hear him, " replied Richling. 

"Goin' to be a gwan' out-po'-ing, Mistoo Itchlin. Citizens of Noo 'Leanswithout the leas' 'espec' faw fawmeh polly-tickle diff'ence. Alsofiah-works. 'Come one, come all, ' as says the gweat Scott--includin'yo'seff, Mistoo Itchlin. No? Well, _au 'evoi'_, Mistoo Itchlin. "

CHAPTER XLVI. 

A PRISON MEMENTO. 

The political pot began to seethe. Many yet will remember how its smokewent up. The summer--summer of 1860--grew fervent. Its breath became hotand dry. All observation--all thought--turned upon the fierce campaign. Discussion dropped as to whether Heenan would ever get that champion'sbelt, which even the little rector believed he had fairly won in theinternational prize-ring. The news brought by each succeeding Europeansteamer of Garibaldi's splendid triumphs in the cause of a new Italy, the fierce rattle of partisan warfare in Mexico, that seemed almostwithin hearing, so nearly was New Orleans concerned in some of itsmovements, --all things became secondary and trivial beside thedevelopments of a political canvass in which the long-foreseen, long-dreaded issues between two parts of the nation were at length to bemade final. The conventions had met, the nominations were complete, andthe clans of four parties and fractions of parties were "meeting, " and"rallying, " and "uprising, " and "outpouring. "

All life was strung to one high pitch. This contest waseverything, --nay, everybody, --men, women, and children. They were allfor the Constitution; they were all for the Union; and each, evenRichling, for the enforcement of--his own ideas. On every bosom, "nomatteh the sex, " and no matter the age, hung one of those little round, ribbanded medals, with a presidential candidate on one side and hisvice-presidential man Friday on the other. Needless to say thatRistofalo's Kate, instructed by her husband, imported the earliest andmany a later invoice of them, and distributing her peddlers at choicethronging-places, "everlastin'ly, " as she laughingly and confidentiallyinformed Dr. Sevier, "raked in the sponjewlicks. " They were exposed forsale on little stalls on populous sidewalks and places of much entry andexit. 

The post-office in those days was still on Royal street, in the oldMerchants' Exchange. The small hand-holes of the box-delivery were inthe wide tessellated passage that still runs through the building fromRoyal street to Exchange alley. A keeper of one of these little stallsestablished himself against a pillar just where men turned into and outof Royal street, out of or into this passage. One day, in this place, just as Richling turned from a delivery window to tear the envelope of aletter bearing the Milwaukee stamp, his attention was arrested by a manrunning by him toward Exchange alley, pale as death, and followed by acrowd that suddenly broke into a cry, a howl, a roar: "Hang him! Hanghim!"

"Come!" said a small, strong man, seizing Richling's arm and turning himin the common direction. If the word was lost on Richling's defectivehearing, not so the touch; for the speaker was Ristofalo. The twofriends ran with all their speed through the passage and out into thealley. A few rods away the chased wretch had been overtaken, and wasmade to face his pursuers. When Richling and Ristofalo reached him therewas already a rope about his neck. 

The Italian's leap, as he closed in upon the group around the victim, was like a tiger's. The men he touched did not fall; they were ratherhurled, driving backward those whom they were hurled against. A manlevelled a revolver at him; Richling struck it a blow that sent it overtwenty men's heads. A long knife flashed in Ristofalo's right hand. Hestood holding the rope in his left, stooping slightly forward, anddarting his eyes about as if selecting a victim for his weapon. Astranger touched Richling from behind, spoke a hurried word in Italian, and handed him a huge dirk. But in that same moment the affair was over. There stood Ristofalo, gentle, self-contained, with just a perceptiblesmile turned upon the crowd, no knife in his hand, and beside him theslender, sinewy, form, and keen gray eye of Smith Izard. 

The detective was addressing the crowd. While he was speaking, half ascore of police came from as many directions. When he had finished, hewaved his slender hand at the mass of heads. 

"Stand back. Go about your business. " And they began to go. He laid ahand upon the rescued stranger and addressed the police. 

"Take this rope off. Take this man to the station and keep him untilit's safe to let him go. "

The explanation by which he had so quickly pacified the mob was a simpleone. The rescued man was a seller of campaign medals. That morning, inopening a fresh supply of his little stock, he had failed to perceivethat, among a lot of "Breckenridge and Lane" medals, there had creptin one of Lincoln. That was the sum of his offence. The mistake hadoccurred in the Northern factory. Of course, if he did not intend tosell Lincoln medals, there was no crime. 

"Don't I tell you?" said the Italian to Richling, as they were walkingaway together. "Bound to have war; is already begin-n. "

"It began with me the day I got married, " said Richling. 

Ristofalo waited some time, and then asked:--

"How?"

"I shouldn't have said so, " replied Richling; "I can't explain. "

"Thass all right, " said the other. And, a little later: "Smith Izardcall' you by name. How he know yo' name?"

"I can't imagine!"

The Italian waved his hand. 

"Thass all right, too; nothin' to me. " Then, after another pause: "Thinkyou saved my life to-day. "

"The honors are easy, " said Richling. 

He went to bed again for two or three days. He liked it little when Dr. Sevier attributed the illness to a few moments' violent exertion andexcitement. 

"It was bravely done, at any rate, Richling, " said the Doctor. 

"_That_ it was!" said Kate Ristofalo, who had happened to call to seethe sick man at the same hour. "Doctor, ye'r mighty right! Ha!"

Mrs. Reisen expressed a like opinion, and the two kind women met the twomen's obvious wish by leaving the room. 

"Doctor, " said Richling at once, "the last time you said it waslove-sickness; this time you say it's excitement; at the bottom it isn'teither. Will you please tell me what it really is? What is this thingthat puts me here on my back this way?"

"Richling, " replied the Doctor, slowly, "if I tell you the honest truth, it began in that prison. "

The patient knit his hands under his head and lay motionless andsilent. 

"Yes, " he said, after a time. And by and by again: "Yes; I feared asmuch. And can it be that my _physical_ manhood is going to fail me atsuch a time as this?" He drew a long breath and turned restively in thebed. 

"We'll try to keep it from doing that, " replied the physician. "I'vetold you this, Richling, old fellow to impress upon you the necessity ofkeeping out of all this hubbub, --this night-marching and mass-meetingand exciting nonsense. "

"And am I always--always to be blown back--blown back this way?" saidRichling, half to himself, half to his friend. 

"There, now, " responded the Doctor, "just stop talking entirely. No, no;not always blown back. A sick man always thinks the present moment isthe whole boundless future. Get well. And to that end possess your soulin patience. No newspapers. Read your Bible. It will calm you. I've beentrying it myself. " His tone was full of cheer, but it was also somotherly and the touch so gentle with which he put back the sick man'slocks--as if they had been a lad's--that Richling turned away his facewith chagrin. 

"Come!" said the Doctor, more sturdily, laying his hand on the patient'sshoulder. "You'll not lie here more than a day or two. Before you knowit summer will be gone, and you'll be sending for Mary. "

Richling turned again, put out a parting hand, and smiled with newcourage. 

CHAPTER XLVII. 

NOW I LAY ME--

Time may drag slowly, but it never drags backward. So the summer woreon, Richling following his physician's directions; keeping to his workonly--out of public excitements and all overstrain; and to every day, ashe bade it good-by, his eager heart, lightened each time by that much, said, "When you come around again, next year, Mary and I will meet youhand in hand. " This was _his_ excitement, and he seemed to flourish onit. 

But day by day, week by week, the excitements of the times rose. Dr. Sevier was deeply stirred, and ever on the alert, looking out upon everyquarter of the political sky, listening to the rising thunder, watchingthe gathering storm. There could hardly have been any one morecompletely engrossed by it. If there was, it was his book-keeper. Itwasn't so much the Constitution that enlisted Narcisse's concern; noryet the Union, which seemed to him safe enough; much less did the desireto see the enforcement of the laws consume him. Nor was it altogetherthe "'oman candles" and the "'ockets"; but the rhetoric. 

Ah, the "'eto'ic"! He bathed, he paddled, dove, splashed, in a surf ofit. 

"Doctah, "--shaking his finely turned shoulders into his coat and liftinghis hat toward his head, --"I had the honah, and at the same time thepleasu', to yeh you make a shawt speech lass evening. I was p'oud toyeh yo' bunning eloquence, Doctah, --if you'll allow. Yesseh. Eve'ybodysaid 'twas the moze bilious effo't of the o'-casion. "

Dr. Sevier actually looked up and smiled, and thanked the happy youngman for the compliment. 

"Yesseh, " continued his admirer, "I nevveh flatteh. I give me'-it wherethe me'-it lies. Well, seh, we juz make the welkin 'ing faw joy when youfinally stop' at the en'. Pehchance you heard my voice among that sea ofhead'? But I doubt--in 'such a vas' up'ising--so many imposing pageant', in fact, --and those 'ocket' exploding in the staw-y heaven', as theysay. I think I like that exp'ession I saw on the noozpapeh, wheh itsays: 'Long biffo the appointed owwa, thousan' of flashing tawches andtas'eful t'anspa'encies with divuz devices whose blazing effulgenceturn' day into night. ' Thass a ve'y talented style, in fact. Well, _au'evoi'_, Doctah. I'm going ad the--an' thass anotheh thing I like--'tisfaw the ladies to 'ing bells that way on the balconies. Because Mr. Belland Eve'et is name _bell_, and so is the _bells_ name' juz the same way, and so they 'ing the _bells_ to signify. I had to elucidate that to myhant. Well, _au 'evoi'_, Doctah. "

The Doctor raised his eyes from his letter-writing. The young man hadturned, and was actually going out without another word. What perversitymoved the physician no one will ever know; but he sternly called:--

"Narcisse?"

The Creole wheeled about on the threshold. 

"Yesseh?"

The Doctor held him with a firm, grave eye, and slowly said:--

"I suppose before you return you will go to the post office. " He saidnothing more, --only that, just in his jocose way, --and dropped his eyesagain upon his pen. Narcisse gave him one long black look, and silentlywent out. 

But a sweet complacency could not stay long away from the young man'sbreast. The world was too beautiful; the white, hot sky above was insuch fine harmony with his puffed lawn shirt-bosom and his white linenpantaloons, bulging at the thighs and tapering at the ankles, and at thecorner of Canal and Royal streets he met so many members of the YanceyGuards and Southern Guards and Chalmette Guards and Union Guards andLane Dragoons and Breckenridge Guards and Douglas Rangers and EverettKnights, and had the pleasant trouble of stepping aside and yielding thepavement to the far-spreading crinoline. Oh, life was one scintillatingcluster breast-pin of ecstasies! And there was another thing, --GeneralWilliam Walker's filibusters! Royal street, St. Charles, the rotunda ofthe St. Charles Hotel, were full of them. 

It made Dr. Sevier both sad and fierce to see what hold their lawlessenterprise took upon the youth of the city. Not that any great numberwere drawn into the movement, least of all Narcisse; but it captivatedtheir interest and sympathy, and heightened the general unrest, whencalmness was what every thoughtful man saw to be the country's greatestneed. 

An incident to illustrate the Doctor's state of mind. 

It occurred one evening in the St. Charles rotunda. He saw somecitizens of high standing preparing to drink at the bar with a group ofbroad-hatted men, whose bronzed foreheads and general out-of-door mienhinted rather ostentatiously of Honduras and Ruatan Island. As he passedclose to them one of the citizens faced him blandly, and unexpectedlytook his hand, but quickly let it go again. The rest only glanced atthe Doctor, and drew nearer to the bar. 

"I trust you're not unwell, Doctor, " said the sociable one, withsomething of a smile, and something of a frown, at the tall physician'sgloomy brow. 

"I am well, sir. "

"I--didn't know, " said the man again, throwing an aggressive resentmentinto his tone; "you seemed preoccupied. "

"I was, " replied the Doctor, returning his glance with so keen an eyethat the man smiled again, appeasingly. "I was thinking how barelyskin-deep civilization is. "

The man ha-ha'd artificially, stepping backward as he said, "That's so!"He looked after the departing Doctor an instant and then joined hiscompanions. 

Richling had a touch of this contagion. He looked from Garibaldi toWalker and back again, and could not see any enormous difference betweenthem. He said as much to one of the bakery's customers, a restaurateurwith a well-oiled tongue, who had praised him for his intrepidity in therescue of the medal-peddler, which, it seems, he had witnessed. Withthis praise still upon his lips the caterer walked with Richling to therestaurant door, and detained him there to enlarge upon the subject ofSpanish-American misrule, and the golden rewards that must naturallyfall to those who should supplant it with stable government. Richlinglistened and replied and replied again and listened; and presently therestaurateur startled him with an offer to secure him a captain'scommission under Walker. He laughed incredulously; but the restaurateur, very much in earnest, talked on; and by littles, but rapidly, Richlingadmitted the value of the various considerations urged. Two or threemonths of rapid adventure; complete physical renovation--ofcourse--natural sequence; the plaudits of a grateful people; maybefortune also, but at least a certainty of finding the road to it, --allthis to meet Mary with next fall. 

"I'm in a great hurry just now, " said Richling; "but I'll talk aboutthis thing with you again to-morrow or next day, " and so left. 

The restaurateur turned to his head-waiter, stuck his tongue in hischeek, and pulled down the lower lid of an eye with his forefinger. Hemeant to say he had been lying for the pure fun of it. 

When Dr. Sevier came that afternoon to see Reisen--of whom there was nowbut little left, and that little unable to leave the bed--Richling tookoccasion to raise the subject that had entangled his fancy. He wascareful to say nothing of himself or the restaurateur, or anything, indeed, but a timid generality or two. But the Doctor responded with aclear, sudden energy that, when he was gone, left Richling feelingpainfully blank, and yet unable to find anything to resent except theDoctor's superfluous--as he thought, quite superfluous--mention of theisland of Cozumel. 

However, and after all, that which for the most part kept the publicmind heated was, as we have said, the political campaign. Popularfeeling grew tremulous with it as the landscape did under the burningsun. It was a very hot summer. Not a good one for feeble folk; and oneearly dawn poor Reisen suddenly felt all his reason come back to him, opened his eyes, and lo! he had crossed the river in the night, and wason the other side. 

Dr. Sevier's experienced horse halted of his own will to let aprocession pass. In the carriage at its head the physician saw thelittle rector, sitting beside a man of German ecclesiastical appearance. Behind it followed a majestic hearse, drawn by black-plumed andcaparisoned horses, --four of them. Then came a long line of red-shirtedfiremen; for he in the hearse had been an "exempt. " Then a further lineof big-handed, white-gloved men in beavers and regalias; for he hadbeen also a Freemason and an Odd-fellow. Then another column, ofemotionless-visaged German women, all in bunchy black gowns, walking outof time to the solemn roll and pulse of the muffled drums, and thebrazen peals of the funeral march. A few carriages closed the longline. In the first of them the waiting Doctor marked, with a suddenunderstanding of all, the pale face of John Richling, and by his sidethe widow who had been forty years a wife, --weary and red with weeping. The Doctor took off his hat. 

CHAPTER XLVIII. 

RISE UP, MY LOVE, MY FAIR ONE. 

The summer at length was past, and the burning heat was over and gone. The days were refreshed with the balm of a waning October. There hadbeen no fever. True, the nights were still aglare with torches, and thestreet echoes kept awake by trumpet notes and huzzas, by the tramp offeet and the delicate hint of the bell-ringing; and men on the stump andoff it; in the "wigwams;" along the sidewalks, as they came forth, wiping their mouths, from the free-lunch counters, and on thecurb-stones and "flags" of Carondelet street, were saying things to makea patriot's heart ache. But contrariwise, in that same Carondeletstreet, and hence in all the streets of the big, scattered town, themost prosperous commercial year--they measure from September toSeptember--that had ever risen upon New Orleans had closed its distendedrecord, and no one knew or dreamed that, for nearly a quarter of acentury to come, the proud city would never see the equal of that goldenyear just gone. And so, away yonder among the great lakes on thenorthern border of the anxious but hopeful country, Mary was calling, calling, like an unseen bird piping across the fields for its mate, toknow if she and the one little nestling might not come to hers. 

And at length, after two or three unexpected contingencies had causeddelays of one week after another, all in a silent tremor of joy, Johnwrote the word--"Come!"

He was on his way to put it into the post-office, in Royal street. Atthe newspaper offices, in Camp street, he had to go out into the middleof the way to get around the crowd that surrounded the bulletin-boards, and that scuffled for copies of the latest issue. The day of days waspassing; the returns of election were coming in. In front of the"Picayune" office he ran square against a small man, who had just pulledhimself and the most of his clothing out of the press with the last newscrumpled in the hand that he still held above his head. 

"Hello, Richling, this is pretty exciting, isn't it?" It was the littleclergyman. "Come on, I'll go your way; let's get out of this. "

He took Richling's arm, and they went on down the street, the rectorreading aloud as they walked, and shopkeepers and salesmen at theirdoors catching what they could of his words as the two passed. 

"It's dreadful! dreadful!" said the little man, thrusting the paper intohis pocket in a wad. 

"Hi! Mistoo Itchlin, " quoth Narcisse, passing them like an arrow, on hisway to the paper offices. 

"He's happy, " said Richling. 

"Well, then, he's the only happy man I know of in New Orleans to-day, "said the little rector, jerking his head and drawing a sigh through histeeth. 

"No, " said Richling, "I'm another. You see this letter. " He showed itwith the direction turned down. "I'm going now to mail it. When my wifegets it she starts. "

The preacher glanced quickly into his face. Richling met his gaze witheyes that danced with suppressed joy. The two friends attracted noattention from those whom they passed or who passed them; the newsboyswere scampering here and there, everybody buying from them, and thewalls of Common street ringing with their shouted proffers of the "fullaccount" of the election. 

"Richling, don't do it. "

"Why not?" Richling showed only amusement. 

"For several reasons, " replied the other. "In the first place, look atyour business!"

"Never so good as to-day. "

"True. And it entirely absorbs you. What time would you have at yourfireside, or even at your family table? None. It's--well you know whatit is--it's a bakery, you know. You couldn't expect to lodge _your_ wifeand little girl in a bakery in Benjamin street; you know you couldn't. Now, _you_--you don't mind it--or, I mean, you can stand it. Thosethings never need damage a gentleman. But with your wife it would bedifferent. You smile, but--why, you know she couldn't go there. And ifyou put her anywhere where a lady ought to be, in New Orleans, she wouldbe--well, don't you see she would be about as far away as if she were inMilwaukee? Richling, I don't know how it looks to you for me to be someddlesome, and I believe you think I'm making a very poor argument; butyou see this is only one point and the smallest. Now"--

Richling raised his thin hand, and said pleasantly:--

"It's no use. You can't understand; it wouldn't be possible to explain;for you simply don't know Mary. "

"But there are some things I do know. Just think; she's with her motherwhere she is. Imagine her falling ill here, --as you've told me she usedto do, --and you with that bakery on your hands. "

Richling looked grave. 

"Oh no, " continued the little man. "You've been so brave and patient, you and your wife, both, --do be so a little bit longer! Live close; saveyour money; go on rising in value in your business; and after a littleyou'll rise clear out of the sphere you're now in. You'll command yourown time; you'll build your own little home; and life and happiness andusefulness will be fairly and broadly open before you. " Richling gaveheed with a troubled face, and let his companion draw him into theshadow of that "St. Charles" from the foot of whose stair-way he hadonce been dragged away as a vagrant. 

"See, Richling! Every few weeks you may read in some paper of how aman on some ferry-boat jumps for the wharf before the boat has touchedit, falls into the water, and-- Make sure! Be brave a littlelonger--only a little longer! Wait till you're sure!"

"I'm sure enough!"

"Oh, no, you're not! Wait till this political broil is over. They sayLincoln is elected. If so, the South is not going to submit to it. Nobody can tell what the consequences are to be. Suppose we should havewar? I don't think we shall, but suppose we should? There would be ageneral upheaval, commercial stagnation, industrial collapse, shrinkageeverywhere! Wait till it's over. It may not be two weeks hence; it canhardly be more than ninety days at the outside. If it should the Northwould be ruined, and you may be sure they are not going to allow _that_. Then, when all starts fair again, bring your wife and baby. I'll tellyou what to do, Richling!"

"Will you?" responded the listener, with an amiable laugh that thelittle man tried to echo. 

"Yes. Ask Dr. Sevier! He's right here in the next street. He was onyour side last time; maybe he'll be so now. "

"Done!" said Richling. They went. The rector said he would do an errandin Canal street, while Richling should go up and see the physician. 

Dr. Sevier was in. 

"Why, Richling!" He rose to receive him. "How are you?" He cast his eyeover his visitor with professional scrutiny. "What brings _you_ here?"

"To tell you that I've written for Mary, " said Richling, sinking wearilyinto a chair. 

"Have you mailed the letter?"

"I'm taking it to the post-office now. "

The Doctor threw one leg energetically over the other, and picked up thesame paper-knife that he had handled when, two years and a half before, he had sat thus, talking to Mary and John on the eve of theirseparation. 

"Richling, I'll tell you. I've been thinking about this thing for sometime, and I've decided to make you a proposal. I look at you and at Maryand at the times--the condition of the country--the probablefuture--everything. I know you, physically and mentally, better thananybody else does. I can say the same of Mary. So, of course, I don'tmake this proposal impulsively, and I don't want it rejected. 

"Richling, I'll lend you two thousand to twenty-five hundred dollars, payable at your convenience, if you will just go to your room, pack up, go home, and take from six to twelve months' holiday with your wife andchild. "

The listener opened his mouth in blank astonishment. 

"Why, Doctor, you're jesting! You can't suppose"--

"I don't suppose anything. I simply want you to do it. "

"Well, I simply can't!"

"Did you ever regret taking my advice, Richling?"

"No, never. But this--why, it's utterly impossible! Me leave the resultsof four years' struggle to go holidaying? I can't understand you, Doctor. "

"'Twould take weeks to explain. "

"It's idle to think of it, " said Richling, half to himself. 

"Go home and think of it twenty-four hours, " said the Doctor. 

"It is useless, Doctor. "

"Very good, then; send for Mary. Mail your letter. "

"You don't mean it!" said Richling. 

"Yes, I do. Send for Mary; and tell her I advised it. " He turned quicklyaway to his desk, for Richling's eyes had filled with tears; but turnedagain and rose as Richling rose. They joined hands. 

"Yes, Richling, send for her. It's the right thing to do--if you willnot do the other. You know I want you to be happy. "

"Doctor, one word. In your opinion is there going to be war?"

"I don't know. But if there is it's time for husband and wife and childto draw close together. Good-day. "

And so the letter went. 

CHAPTER XLIX. 

A BUNDLE OF HOPES. 

Richling insisted, in the face of much scepticism on the part of thebaker's widow, that he felt better, was better, and would go on gettingbetter, now that the weather was cool once more. 

"Well, I hope you vill, Mr. Richlin', dtat's a fect. 'Specially ven yo'vife comin'. Dough _I_ could a-tooken care ye choost tso koot as vot shecouldt. "

"But maybe you couldn't take care of her as well as I can, " said thehappy Richling. 

"Oh, tdat's a tdifferendt. A voman kin tek care herself. "

Visiting the French market on one of these glad mornings, as hisbusiness often required him to do, he fell in with Narcisse, justwithdrawing from the celebrated coffee-stand of Rose Nicaud. Richlingstopped in the moving crowd and exchanged salutations very willingly;for here was one more chance to hear himself tell the fact of Mary'sexpected coming. 

"So'y, Mistoo Itchlin, " said Narcisse, whipping away the pastry crumbsfrom his lap with a handkerchief and wiping his mouth, "not to encountehyou a lill biffo', to join in pahtaking the cup what cheeahs at the sametime whilce it invigo'ates; to-wit, the coffee-cup--as the maxim say. Idunno by what fawmule she makes that coffee, but 'tis astonishin' how'tis good, in fact. I dunno if you'll billieve me, but I feel almost Icould pahtake anotheh cup--? 'Tis the tooth. " He gave Richling time tomake any handsome offer that might spontaneously suggest itself, butseeing that the response was only an over-gay expression of face, headded, "But I conclude no. In fact, Mistoo Itchlin, thass a thing I havediscovud, --that too much coffee millytates ag'inst the chi'og'aphy; andthus I abstain. Well, seh, ole Abe is elected. "

"Yes, " rejoined Richling, "and there's no telling what the result willbe. "

"You co'ect, Mistoo Itchlin. " Narcisse tried to look troubled. 

"I've got a bit of private news that I don't think you've heard, " saidRichling. And the Creole rejoined promptly:--

"Well, I _thought_ I saw something on yo' thoughts--if you'll excuse mytautology. Thass a ve'y diffycult to p'event sometime'. But, MistooItchlin, I trus' 'tis not you 'ave allowed somebody to swin'leyou?--confiding them too indiscweetly, in fact?" He took a prettyattitude, his eyes reposing in Richling's. 

Richling laughed outright. 

"No, nothing of that kind. No, I"--

"Well, I'm ve'y glad, " interrupted Narcisse. 

"Oh, no, 'tisn't trouble at all! I've sent for Mrs. Richling. We'regoing to resume housekeeping. "

Narcisse gave a glad start, took his hat off, passed it to his lefthand, extended his right, bowed from the middle with princely grace, and, with joy breaking all over his face, said:--

"Mistoo Itchlin, in fact, --shake!"

They shook. 

"Yesseh--an' many 'appy 'eturn! I dunno if you kin billieve that, MistooItchlin; but I was juz about to 'ead that in yo' physio'nomie! Yesseh. But, Mistoo Itchlin, when shall the happy o'casion take effect?"

"Pretty soon. Not as soon as I thought, for I got a despatch yesterday, saying her mother is very ill, and of course I telegraphed her to staytill her mother is at least convalescent. But I think that will be soon. Her mother has had these attacks before. I have good hopes that beforelong Mrs. Richling will actually be here. "

Richling began to move away down the crowded market-house, but Narcissesaid:--

"Thass yo' di'ection? 'Tis the same, mine. We may accompany togetheh--ifyou'll allow yo' 'umble suvvant?"

"Come along! You do me honor!" Richling laid his hand on Narcisse'sshoulder and they went at a gait quickened by the happy husband'selation. Narcisse was very proud of the touch, and, as they began totraverse the vegetable market, took the most populous arcade. 

"Mistoo Itchlin, " he began again, "I muz congwatu_late_ you! You know Ialways admiah yo' lady to excess. But appopo of that news, I mightinfawm you some intelligens consunning myseff. "

"Good!" exclaimed Richling. "For it's good news, isn't it?"

"Yesseh, --as you may say, --yes. Faw in fact, Mistoo Itchlin, I 'ave assDr. Seveeah to haugment me. "

"Hurrah!" cried Richling. He coughed and laughed and moved aside to apillar and coughed, until people looked at him, and lifted his eyes, tired but smiling, and, paying his compliments to the paroxysm in one ortwo ill-wishes, wiped his eyes at last, and said:--

"And the Doctor augmented you?"

"Well, no, I can't say that--not p'ecisely. "

"Why, what did he do?"

"Well, he 'efuse' me, in fact. "

"Why--but that isn't good news, then. "

Narcisse gave his head a bright, argumentative twitch. 

"Yesseh. 'Tis t'ue he 'efuse'; but ad the same time--I dunno--I thing hewasn' so mad about it as he make out. An' you know thass one thing, Mistoo Itchlin, whilce they got life they got hope; and hence Iente'tain the same. "

They had reached that flagged area without covering or inclosure, beforethe third of the three old market-houses, where those dealers in theentire miscellanies of a housewife's equipment, excepting only stovesand furniture, spread their wares and fabrics in the open weather beforethe Bazar market rose to give them refuge. He grew suddenly fierce. 

"But any'ow I don't care! I had the spunk to ass 'im, an' he din 'avethe spunk to dischawge me! All he can do; 'tis to shake the fis' ofimpatience. " He was looking into his companion's face, as they walked, with an eye distended with defiance. 

"Look out!" exclaimed Richling, reaching a hurried hand to draw himaside. Narcisse swerved just in time to avoid stepping into a pile ofcrockery, but in so doing went full into the arms of a stately femalefigure dressed in the crispest French calico and embarrassed withnumerous small packages of dry goods. The bundles flew hither and yon. Narcisse tried to catch the largest as he saw it going, but only sent itfarther than it would have gone, and as it struck the ground it burstlike a pomegranate. But the contents were white: little thin, square-folded fractions of barred jaconet and white flannel; rolls ofslender white lutestring ribbon; very narrow papers of tiny white pearlbuttons, minute white worsted socks, spools of white floss, cards ofsafety-pins, pieces of white castile soap, etc. 

"_Mille pardons, madame!_" exclaimed Narcisse; "I make you a thousan'poddons, madam!"

He was ill-prepared for the majestic wrath that flashed from the eyesand radiated from the whole dilating, and subsiding, and reëxpanding, and rising, and stiffening form of Kate Ristofalo!

"Officerr, " she panted, --for instantly there was a crowd, and a man withthe silver-crescent badge was switching the assemblage on the legs withhis cane to make room, --"Officerr, " she gasped, levelling her tremulousfinger at Narcisse, "arrist that man!"

"Mrs. Ristofalo!" exclaimed Richling, "don't do that! It was all anaccident! Why, don't you see it's Narcisse, --my friend?"

"Yer frind rised his hand to sthrike me, sur, he did! Yer frind risedhis hand to sthrike me, he did!" And up she went and down she went, shortening and lengthening, swelling and decreasing. "Yes, yes, Iknow yer frind; indeed I do! I paid two dollars and a half fur hisacquaintans nigh upon three years agone, sur. Yer frind!" And still shewent up and down, enlarging, diminishing, heaving her breath and wavingher chin around, and saying, in broken utterances, --while a hackman onher right held his whip in her auditor's face, crying, "Carriage, sir?Carriage, sir?"--

"Why didn'--he rin agin--a man, sur! I--I--oh! I wish Mr. Ristofalah warheer!--to teach um how--to walk!--Yer frind, sur--ixposing me!" Shepointed to Narcisse and the policeman gathering up the scattered lot oftiny things. Her eyes filled with tears, but still shot lightning. "Ifhe's hurrted me, he's got 'o suffer fur ud, Mr. Richlin'!" And sheexpanded again. 

"Carriage, sir, carriage?" continued the man with the whip. 

"Yes!" said Richling and Mrs. Ristofalo in a breath. She took his arm, the hackman seized the bundles from the policeman, threw open his hackdoor, laid the bundles on the front seat, and let down the foldingsteps. The crowd dwindled away to a few urchins. 

"Officerr, " said Mrs. Ristofalo, her foot on the step and composure oncemore in her voice, "ye needn't arrist um. I could of done ud, sur, " sheadded to Narcisse himself, "but I'm too much of a laydy, sur!" And shesank together and stretched herself up once more, entered the vehicle, and sat with a perpendicular back, her arms folded on her still heavingbosom, and her head high. 

As to her ability to have that arrest made, Kate Ristofalo was in error. Narcisse smiled to himself; for he was conscious of one advantage thatovertopped all the sacredness of female helplessness, public right, orany other thing whatsoever. It lay in the simple fact that he wasacquainted with the policeman. He bowed blandly to the officer, steppedbackward, touching his hat, and walked away, the policeman imitatingeach movement with the promptness and faithfulness of a mirror. 

"Aren't ye goin' to get in, Mr. Richlin'?" asked Mrs. Ristofalo. Shesmiled first and then looked alarmed. 

"I--I can't very well--if you'll excuse me, ma'am. "

"Ah, Mr. Richlin'!"--she pouted girlishly. "Gettin' proud!" She gave herhead a series of movements, as to say she might be angry if she would, but she wouldn't. "Ye won't know uz when Mrs. Richlin' comes. "

Richling laughed, but she gave a smiling toss to indicate that it was aserious matter. 

"Come, " she insisted, patting the seat beside her with honeyedpersuasiveness, "come and tell me all about ud. Mr. Ristofalah nivvergoes into peticklers, an' so I har'ly know anny more than jist she'sa-comin'. Come, git in an' tell me about Mrs. Richlin'--that is, if yelike the subject--and I don't believe ye do. " She lifted her finger, shook it roguishly close to her own face, and looked at him sidewise. "Ah, nivver mind, sur! that's rright! Furgit yer old frinds--maybe yewudden't do ud if ye knewn everythin'. But that's rright; that's the waywith min. " She suddenly changed to subdued earnestness, turned the catchof the door, and, as the door swung open, said: "Come, if ud's only fura bit o' the way--if ud's only fur a ming-ute. I've got somethin' totell ye. "

"I must get out at Washington Market, " said Richling, as he got in. Thehack hurried down Old Levee street. 

"And now, " said she, merriment dancing in her eyes, her folded armstightening upon her bosom, and her lips struggling against their ownsmile, "I'm just a good mind not to tell ye at ahll!"

Her humor was contagious and Richling was ready to catch it. His own eyetwinkled. 

"Well, Mrs. Ristofalo, of course, if you feel any embarrassment"--

"Ye villain!" she cried, with delighted indignation, "I didn't meannawthing about _that_, an' ye knew ud! Here, git out o' this carridge!"But she made no effort to eject him. 

"Mary and I are interested in all your hopes, " said Richling, smilingsoftly upon the damaged bundle which he was making into a tight packageagain on his knee. "You'll tell me your good news if it's only that Imay tell her, will you not?"

"_I_ will. And it's joost this, --Mr. Richlin', --that if there be's a warMr. Ristofalah's to be lit out o' prison. "

"I'm very glad!" cried Richling, but stopped short, for Mrs. Ristofalo's growing dignity indicated that there was more to be told. 

"I'm sure ye air, Mr. Richlin'; and I'm sure ye'll be glad--a heapgladder nor I am--that in that case he's to be Captain Ristofalah. "

"Indeed!"

"Yes, sur. " The wife laid her palm against her floating ribs andbreathed a sigh. "I don't like ud, Mr. Richlin'. No, sur. I don't liketytles. " She got her fan from under her handkerchief and set it a-going. "I nivver liked the idee of bein' a tytled man's wife. No, sur. " Sheshook her head, elevating it as she shook it. "It creates too muchinvy, Mr. Richlin'. Well, good-by. " The carriage was stopping at theWashington Market. "Now, don't ye mintion it to a livin' soul, Mr. Richlin'!"

Richling said "No. "

"No, sur; fur there be's manny a slip 'tuxt the cup an' the lip, ye know; an' there may be no war, after all, and we may all bedisapp'inted. But he's bound to be tleared if he's tried, and don't yesee--I--I don't want um to be a captain, anyhow, don't ye see?"

Richling saw, and they parted. 

 * * *

Thus everybody hoped. Dr. Sevier, wifeless, childless, had his hopestoo, nevertheless. Hopes for the hospital and his many patients in itand out of it; hopes for his town and his State; hopes for Richlingand Mary; and hopes with fears, and fears with hopes, for the greatsisterhood of States. Richling had one hope more. After some weeks hadpassed Dr. Sevier ventured once more to say:--

"Richling, go home. Go to your wife. I must tell you you're no ordinarysick man. Your life is in danger. "

"Will I be out of danger if I go home?" asked Richling. 

Dr. Sevier made no answer. 

"Do you still think we may have war?" asked Richling again. 

"I know we shall. "

"And will the soldiers come back, " asked the young man, smilingly, "whenthey find their lives in danger?"

"Now, Richling, that's another thing entirely; that's the battle-field. "

"Isn't it all the _same_ thing, Doctor? Isn't it all a battle-field?"

The Doctor turned impatiently, disdaining to reply. But in a moment heretorted:--

"We take wounded men off the field. "

"They don't take themselves off, " said Richling, smiling. 

"Well, " rejoined the Doctor, rising and striding toward a window, "agood general may order a retreat. "

"Yes, but--maybe I oughtn't to say what I was thinking"--

"Oh, say it. "

"Well, then, he don't let his surgeon order it. Doctor, " continuedRichling, smiling apologetically as his friend confronted him, "youknow, as you say, better than any one else, all that Mary and I havegone through--nearly all--and how we've gone through it. Now, if my lifeshould end here shortly, what would the whole thing mean? It would meannothing. Doctor; it would be meaningless. No, sir; this isn't the end. Mary and I"--his voice trembled an instant and then was firm again--"aredesigned for a long life. I argue from the simple fitness ofthings, --this is not the end. "

Dr. Sevier turned his face quickly toward the window, and so remained. 

CHAPTER L. 

FALL IN!

There came a sound of drums. Twice on such a day, once the daybefore, thrice the next day, till by and by it was the common thing. High-stepping childhood, with laths and broom-handles at shoulder, wasnot fated, as in the insipid days of peace, to find, on running to thecorner, its high hopes mocked by a wagon of empty barrels rumbling overthe cobble-stones. No; it was the Washington Artillery, or the CrescentRifles, or the Orleans Battalion, or, best of all, the blue-jacketed, white-leggined, red-breeched, and red-fezzed Zouaves; or, better thanthe best, it was all of them together, their captains stepping backward, sword in both hands, calling "_Gauche! gauche!_" ("Left! left!") "Guideright!"--"_Portez armes!_" and facing around again, throwing theirshining blades stiffly to belt and epaulette, and glancing askance fromunder their abundant plumes to the crowded balconies above. Yea, and thedrum-majors before, and the brilliant-petticoated _vivandičres_ behind!

What pomp! what giddy rounds! Pennons, cock-feathers, clattering steeds, pealing salvos, banners, columns, ladies' favors, balls, concerts, toasts, the Free Gift Lottery--don't you recollect?--and this uniformand that uniform, brother a captain, father a colonel, uncle a major, the little rector a chaplain, Captain Ristofalo of the Tiger Rifles; thelevee covered with munitions of war, steam-boats unloading troops, troops, troops, from Opelousas, Attakapas, Texas; and a supper to thiscompany, a flag to that battalion, farewell sermon to the WashingtonArtillery, tears and a kiss to a spurred and sashed lover, hurriedweddings, --no end of them, --a sword to such a one, addresses by such andsuch, serenades to Miss and to Mademoiselle. 

Soon it will have been a quarter of a century ago!

And yet--do you not hear them now, coming down the broad, granite-paved, moonlit street, the light that was made for lovers glancing on bayonetand sword soon to be red with brothers' blood, their brave young heartsalready lifted up with the triumph of battles to come, and the trumpetswaking the midnight stillness with the gay notes of the Cracovienne?--

 "Again, again, the pealing drum, The clashing horn, they come, they come, And lofty deeds and daring high Blend with their notes of victory. "

Ah! the laughter; the music; the bravado; the dancing; the songs!"_Voilŕ l'Zouzou!_" "Dixie!" "_Aux armes, vos citoyens!_" "The BonnieBlue Flag!"--it wasn't bonnie very long. Later the maidens at homelearned to sing a little song, --it is among the missing now, --a part ofit ran:--

 "Sleeping on grassy couches; Pillowed on hillocks damp; Of martial fame how little we know Till brothers are in the camp. "

By and by they began to depart. How many they were! How many, many! Wehad too lightly let them go. And when all were gone, and they ofCarondelet street and its tributaries, massed in that old gray, brittle-shanked regiment, the Confederate Guards, were having theirdaily dress parade in Coliseum place, and only they and the ForeignLegion remained; when sister Jane made lint, and flour was high, andthe sounds of commerce were quite hushed, and in the custom-housegun-carriages were a-making, and in the foundries big guns were beingcast, and the cotton gun-boats and the rams were building, and at therotting wharves the masts of a few empty ships stood like dead trees ina blasted wilderness, and poor soldiers' wives crowded around the "FreeMarket, " and grass began to spring up in the streets, --they were manystill, while far away; but some marched no more, and others marched onbleeding feet, in rags; and it was very, very hard for some of us tohold the voice steady and sing on through the chorus of the littlesong:--

 "Brave boys are they! Gone at their country's call. And yet--and yet--we cannot forget That many brave boys must fall. "

Oh! Shiloh, Shiloh!

But before the gloom had settled down upon us it was a gay dream. 

"Mistoo Itchlin, in fact 'ow you ligue my uniefawm? You think it suit mystyle? They got about two poun' of gole lace on that uniefawm. Yesseh. Me, the h-only thing--I don' ligue those epaulette'. So soon ev'ybodysee that on me, 'tis 'Lieut'nan'!' in thiz place, an' 'Lieut'nan'!' inthat place. My de'seh, you'd thing I'm a majo'-gen'l, in fact. Well, ofco'se, I don' ligue that. "

"And so you're a lieutenant?"

"Third! Of the Chasseurs-á-Pied! Coon he'p 't, in fact; the fellehselected me. Goin' at Pensacola tomaw. Dr. Seveeah _con_tinue my sala'ywhilce I'm gone. No matteh the len'th. Me, I don' care, so long thesala'y _con_tinue, if that waugh las' ten yeah! You ah pe'haps goin' adthe ball to-nighd, Mistoo Itchlin? I dunno 'ow 'tis--I suppose you'll beaztonizh' w'en I infawm you--that ball wemine me of that battle ofWattaloo! Did you evva yeh those line' of Lawd By'on, --

 'Theh was a soun' of wibalwy by night, W'en--'Ush-'ark!--A deep saun' stwike'--?

Thaz by Lawd By'on. Yesseh. Well"--

The Creole lifted his right hand energetically, laid its inner edgeagainst the brass buttons of his _képi_, and then waved it gracefullyabroad:--

"_Au 'evoi'_, Mistoo Itchlin. I leave you to defen' the city. "

"To-morrow, " in those days of unreadiness and disconnection, glided justbeyond reach continually. When at times its realization was at lengthgrasped, it was away over on the far side of a fortnight or farther. However, the to-morrow for Narcisse came at last. 

A quiet order for attention runs down the column. Attention it is. Another order follows, higher-keyed, longer drawn out, and with onesharp "clack!" the sword-bayoneted rifles go to the shoulders of as finea battalion as any in the land of Dixie. 

"_En avant!_"--Narcisse's heart stands still for joy--"_Marche!_"

The bugle rings, the drums beat; "tramp, tramp, " in quick succession, gothe short-stepping, nimble Creole feet, and the old walls of the RueChartres ring again with the pealing huzza, as they rang in the days ofVilleré and Lafréničre, and in the days of the young Galvez, and in thedays of Jackson. 

The old Ponchartrain cars move off, packed. Down at the "Old Lake End"the steamer for Mobile receives the burden. The gong clangs in herengine-room, the walking-beam silently stirs, there is a hiss of waterunderneath, the gang-plank is in, the wet hawser-ends whip through thehawse-holes, --she moves; clang goes the gong again--she glides--or is itthe crowded wharf that is gliding?--No. --Snatch the kisses! snatch them!Adieu! Adieu! She's off, huzza--she's off!

Now she stands away. See the mass of gay colors--red, gold, blue, yellow, with glitter of steel and flutter of flags, a black veil ofsmoke sweeping over. Wave, mothers and daughters, wives, sisters, sweethearts--wave, wave; you little know the future!

And now she is a little thing, her white wake following her afar acrossthe green waters, the call of the bugle floating softly back. And nowshe is a speck. And now a little smoky stain against the eastern blue isall, --and now she is gone. Gone! Gone!

Farewell, soldier boys! Light-hearted, little-forecasting, brave, merry boys! God accept you, our offering of first fruits! See thatmother--that wife--take them away; it is too much. Comfort them, father, brother; tell them their tears may be for naught. 

 "And yet--and yet--we cannot forget That many brave boys must fall. "

Never so glad a day had risen upon the head of Narcisse. For the firsttime in his life he moved beyond the corporate limits of his nativetown. 

"'Ezcape fum the aunt, thou sluggud!'" "_Au 'evoi'_" to his aunt and theuncle of his aunt. "_Au 'evoi'!_ _Au 'evoi'!_"--desk, pen, book--work, care, thought, restraint--all sinking, sinking beneath the recedinghorizon of Lake Ponchartrain, and the wide world and a soldier's lifebefore him. 

Farewell, Byronic youth! You are not of so frail a stuff as you haveseemed. You shall thirst by day and hunger by night. You shall keepvigil on the sands of the Gulf and on the banks of the Potomac. Youshall grow brown, but prettier. You shall shiver in loathsome tatters, yet keep your grace, your courtesy, your joyousness. You shall ditch andlie down in ditches, and shall sing your saucy songs of defiance in theface of the foe, so blackened with powder and dust and smoke that yourmother in heaven would not know her child. And you shall borrow to yourheart's content chickens, hogs, rails, milk, buttermilk, sweet potatoes, what not; and shall learn the American songs, and by the camp-fire ofShenandoah valley sing "The years creep slowly by, Lorena" to messmateswith shaded eyes, and "Her bright smile haunts me still. " Ah, boy!there's an old woman still living in the Rue Casa Calvo--your brightsmile haunts her still. And there shall be blood on your sword, andblood--twice--thrice--on your brow. Your captain shall die in your arms;and you shall lead charge after charge, and shall step up from rank torank; and all at once, one day, just in the final onset, with the cheeron your lips, and your red sword waving high, with but one lightningstroke of agony, down, down you shall go in the death of your dearestchoice. 

CHAPTER LI. 

BLUE BONNETS OVER THE BORDER. 

One morning, about the 1st of June, 1861, in the city of New York, twomen of the mercantile class came from a cross street into Broadway, nearwhat was then the upper region of its wholesale stores. They paused onthe corner, near the edge of the sidewalk. 

"Even when the States were seceding, " said one of them, "I couldn't makeup my mind that they really meant to break up the Union. "

He had rosy cheeks, a retreating chin, and amiable, inquiring eyes. Theother had a narrower face, alert eyes, thin nostrils, and a generallyaggressive look. He did not reply at once, but, after a quick glancedown the great thoroughfare and another one up it, said, while his eyesstill ran here and there:--

"Wonderful street, this Broadway!"

He straightened up to his fullest height and looked again, now down theway, now up, his eye kindling with the electric contagion of the scene. His senses were all awake. They took in, with a spirit of welcome, allthe vast movement: the uproar, the feeling of unbounded multitude, thecommercial splendor, the miles of towering buildings; the long, writhing, grinding mass of coming and going vehicles, the rush ofinnumerable feet, and the countless forms and faces hurrying, dancing, gliding by, as though all the world's mankind, and womankind, andchildhood must pass that way before night. 

"How many people, do you suppose, go by this corner in a single hour?"asked the man with the retreating chin. But again he got no answer. Hemight as well not have yielded the topic of conversation as he had done;so he resumed it. "No, I didn't believe it, " he said. "Why, look at theSouthern vote of last November--look at New Orleans. The way it wentthere, I shouldn't have supposed twenty-five per cent. Of the peoplewould be in favor of secession. Would you?"

But his companion, instead of looking at New Orleans, took note of twowomen who had come to a halt within a yard of them and seemed to bewaiting, as he and his companion were, for an opportunity to cross thestreet. The two new-comers were very different in appearance, the onefrom the other. The older and larger was much beyond middle life, red, fat, and dressed in black stuff, good as to fabric, but uncommonly badas to fit. The other was young and pretty, refined, tastefully dressed, and only the more interesting for the look of permanent anxiety thatasserted itself with distinctness about the corners of her eyes andmouth. She held by the hand a rosy, chubby little child, that seemedabout three years old, and might be a girl or might be a boy, so far ascould be discerned by masculine eyes. The man did not see this fifthmember of their group until the elder woman caught it under the arms inher large hands, and, lifting it above her shoulder, said, looking farup the street:--

"O paypy, paypy, choost look de fla-ags! One, two, dtree, --a tuzzent, ahundut, a dtowsant fla-ags!"

Evidently the child did not know her well. The little face remainedwithout a smile, the lips sealed, the shoulders drawn up, and the legspointing straight to the spot whence they had been lifted. She set itdown again. 

"We're not going to get by here, " said the less talkative man. "Theymust be expecting some troops to pass here. Don't you see the windowsfull of women and children?"

"Let's wait and look at them, " responded the other, and his companiondid not dissent. 

"Well, sir, " said the more communicative one, after a moment'scontemplation, "I never expected to see this!" He indicated by a gesturethe stupendous life of Broadway beginning slowly to roll back uponitself like an obstructed river. It was obviously gathering in a generalpause to concentrate its attention upon something of leading interestabout to appear to view. "We're in earnest at last, and we can see, now, that the South was in the deadest kind of earnest from the word go. "

"They can't be any more in earnest than we are, now, " said the moredecided speaker. 

"I had great hopes of the peace convention, " said the rosier man. 

"I never had a bit, " responded the other. 

"The suspense was awful--waiting to know what Lincoln would do when hecame in, " said he of the poor chin. "My wife was in the South visitingher relatives; and we kept putting off her return, hoping for a quieterstate of affairs--hoping and putting off--till first thing you knew thelines closed down and she had the hardest kind of a job to get through. "

"I never had a doubt as to what Lincoln would do, " said the man withsharp eyes; but while he spoke he covertly rubbed his companion's elbowwith his own, and by his glance toward the younger of the two women gavehim to understand that, though her face was partly turned away, the verypretty ear, with no ear-ring in the hole pierced for it, was listening. And the readier speaker rejoined in a suppressed voice:--

"That's the little lady I travelled in the same car with all the wayfrom Chicago. "

"No times for ladies to be travelling alone, " muttered the other. 

"She hoped to take a steam-ship for New Orleans, to join her husbandthere. "

"Some rebel fellow, I suppose. "

"No, a Union man, she says. "

"Oh, of course!" said the sharp-eyed one, sceptically. "Well, she'smissed it. The last steamer's gone and may get back or may not. " Helooked at her again, narrowly, from behind his companion's shoulder. Shewas stooping slightly toward the child, rearranging some tie under itslifted chin and answering its questions in what seemed a chastenedvoice. He murmured to his fellow, "How do you know she isn't a spy?"

The other one turned upon him a look of pure amusement, but, seeing theset lips and earnest eye of his companion, said softly, with a faint, scouting hiss and smile:--

"She's a perfect lady--a perfect one. "

"Her friend isn't, " said the aggressive man. 

"Here they come, " observed the other aloud, looking up the street. Therewas a general turning of attention and concentration of the street'spopulation toward the edge of either sidewalk. A force of police wasclearing back into the by-streets a dense tangle of drays, wagons, carriages, and white-topped omnibuses, and far up the way could be seenthe fluttering and tossing of handkerchiefs, and in the midst a solidmass of blue with a sheen of bayonets above, and every now and then abrazen reflection from in front, where the martial band marched before. It was not playing. The ear caught distantly, instead of its notes, thewarlike thunder of the drum corps. 

The sharper man nudged his companion mysteriously. 

"Listen, " he whispered. Neither they nor the other pair had materiallychanged their relative positions. The older woman was speaking. 

"'Twas te fun'est dting! You pe lookin' for te Noo 'Leants shteamer, undt me lookin' for te Hambourg shteamer, undt coompt right so togederundt never vouldn't 'a' knowedt udt yet, ovver te mayne exdt me, 'MissesReisen, vot iss your name?' undt you headt udt. Undt te minudt youshpeak, udt choost come to me like a flash o' lightenin'--'Udt issMisses Richlin'!'" The speaker's companion gave her such attention asone may give in a crowd to words that have been heard two or three timesalready within the hour. 

"Yes, Alice, " she said, once or twice to the little one, who pulledsoftly at her skirt asking confidential questions. But the baker's widowwent on with her story, enjoying it for its own sake. 

"You know, Mr. Richlin' he told me finfty dtimes, 'Misses Reisen, doantkif up te pissness!' Ovver I see te mutcheenery proke undt te foundtriesall makin' guns undt kennons, undt I choost says, 'I kot plentehmoneh--I tdtink I kfit undt go home. ' Ovver I sayss to de Doctor, 'Dteoneh dting--vot Mr. Richlin' ko-in to tdo?' Undt Dr. Tseweer he sayss, 'How menneh pa'ls flour you kot shtowed away?' Undt I sayss, 'Tsoohundut finfty. ' Undt he sayss, 'Misses Reisen, Mr. Richlin' done madeyou rich; you choost kif um dtat flour; udt be wort' tweny-fife tollahste pa'l, yet. ' Undt sayss I, 'Doctor, you' right, undt I dtank you forte goodt idea; I kif Mr. Richlin' innahow one pa'l. ' Undt I done-d it. Ovver I sayss, 'Doctor, dtat's not like a rigler sellery, yet. ' Undtdten he sayss, 'You know, _mine_ pookkeeper he gone to te vor, undt Ineed'"--

A crash of brazen music burst upon the ear and drowned the voice. Thethrong of the sidewalk pushed hard upon its edge. 

"Let me hold the little girl up, " ventured the milder man, and set hergently upon his shoulder, as amidst a confusion of outcries and flutterof hats and handkerchiefs the broad, dense column came on withmeasured tread, its stars and stripes waving in the breeze and itsbackward-slanting thicket of bayoneted arms glittering in the morningsun. All at once there arose from the great column, in harmony with thepealing music, the hoarse roar of the soldiers' own voices singing intime to the rhythm of their tread. And a thrill runs through the people, and they answer with mad huzzas and frantic wavings and smiles, half ofwild ardor and half of wild pain; and the keen-eyed man here by Marylets the tears roll down his cheeks unhindered as he swings his hat andcries "Hurrah! hurrah!" while on tramps the mighty column, singing fromits thousand thirsty throats the song of John Brown's Body. 

Yea, so, soldiers of the Union, --though that little mother thereweeps but does not wave, as the sharp-eyed man notes well through histears, --yet even so, yea, all the more, go--"go marching on, " saviors ofthe Union; your cause is just. Lo, now, since nigh twenty-five yearshave passed, we of the South can say it!

 "And yet--and yet, we cannot forget"--

and we would not. 

CHAPTER LII. 

A PASS THROUGH THE LINES. 

About the middle of September following the date of the foregoingincident, there occurred in a farmhouse head-quarters on the Indianashore of the Ohio river the following conversation:--

"You say you wish me to give you a pass through the lines, ma'am. Why doyou wish to go through?"

"I want to join my husband in New Orleans. "

"Why, ma'am, you'd much better let New Orleans come through the lines. We shall have possession of it, most likely, within a month. " Thespeaker smiled very pleasantly, for very pleasant and sweet was theyoung face before him, despite its lines of mental distress, and verysoft and melodious the voice that proceeded from it. 

"Do you think so?" replied the applicant, with an unhopeful smile. "Myfriends have been keeping me at home for months on that idea, but thefact seems as far off now as ever. I should go straight through withoutstopping, if I had a pass. "

"Ho!" exclaimed the man, softly, with pitying amusement. "Certainly, Iunderstand you would try to do so. But, my dear madam, you would findyourself very much mistaken. Suppose, now, we should let you through ourlines. You'd be between two fires. You'd still have to get into therebel lines. You don't know what you're undertaking. "

She smiled wistfully. 

"I'm undertaking to get to my husband. "

"Yes, yes, " said the officer, pulling his handkerchief from between twobrass buttons of his double-breasted coat and wiping his brow. She didnot notice that he made this motion purely as a cover for the searchingglance which he suddenly gave her from head to foot. "Yes, " hecontinued, "but you don't know what it is, ma'am. After you get throughthe _other_ lines, what are you going to do _then_? There's a perfectreign of terror over there. I wouldn't let a lady relative of mine takesuch risks for thousands of dollars. I don't think your husband ought tothank me for giving you a pass. You say he's a Union man; why don't hecome to you?"

Tears leaped into the applicant's eyes. 

"He's become too sick to travel, " she said. 

"Lately?"

"Yes, sir. "

"I thought you said you hadn't heard from him for months. " The officerlooked at her with narrowed eyes. 

"I said I hadn't had a letter from him. " The speaker blushed to find herveracity on trial. She bit her lip, and added, with perceptible tremor:"I got one lately from his physician. "

"How did you get it?"

"What, sir?"

"Now, madam, you know what I asked you, don't you?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Yes. Well, I'd like you to answer. "

"I found it, three mornings ago, under the front door of the house whereI live with my mother and my little girl. "

"Who put it there?"

"I do not know. "

The officer looked her steadily in the eyes. They were blue. His owndropped. 

"You ought to have brought that letter with you, ma'am, " he said, looking up again; "don't you see how valuable it would be to you?"

"I did bring it, " she replied, with alacrity, rummaged a moment in askirt-pocket, and brought it out. The officer received it and read thesuperscription audibly. 

"'Mrs. John H----. ' Are you Mrs. John H----?"

"That is not the envelope it was in, " she replied. "It was not directedat all. I put it into that envelope merely to preserve it. That's theenvelope of a different letter, --a letter from my mother. "

"Are you Mrs. John H----?" asked her questioner again. She had turnedpartly aside and was looking across the apartment and out through awindow. He spoke once more. "Is this your name?"

"What, sir?"

He smiled cynically. 

"Please don't do that again, madam. "

She blushed down into the collar of her dress. 

"That is my name, sir. "

The man put the missive to his nose, snuffed it softly, and lookedamused, yet displeased. 

"Mrs. H----, did you notice just a faint smell of--garlic--aboutthis--?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Well, I have no less than three or four others with the very sameodor. " He smiled on. "And so, no doubt, we are both of the same privateopinion that the bearer of this letter was--who, Mrs. H----?"

Mrs. H---- frequently by turns raised her eyes honestly to herquestioner's and dropped them to where, in her lap, the fingers of onehand fumbled with a lone wedding-ring on the other, while she said:--

"Do you think, sir, if you were in my place you would like to give thename of the person you thought had risked his life to bring you wordthat your husband--your wife--was very ill, and needed your presence?Would you like to do it?"

The officer looked severe. 

"Don't you know perfectly well that wasn't his principal errand insideour lines?"

"No. "

"No!" echoed the man; "and you don't know perfectly well, I suppose, that he's been shot at along this line times enough to have turned hishair white? Or that he crossed the river for the third time last night, loaded down with musket-caps for the rebels?"

"No. "

"But you must admit you know a certain person, wherever he may be, orwhatever he may be doing, named Raphael Ristofalo?"

"I do not. "

The officer smiled again. 

"Yes, I see. That is to say, you don't _admit_ it. And you don't denyit. "

The reply came more slowly:--

"I do not. "

"Well, now, Mrs. H----, I've given you a pretty long audience. I'll tellyou what I'll do. But do you please tell me, first, you affirm on yourword of honor that your name is really Mrs. H----; that you are no spy, and have had no voluntary communication with any, and that you are atrue and sincere Union woman. "

"I affirm it all. "

"Well, then, come in to-morrow at this hour, and if I am going to giveyou a pass at all I'll give it to you then. Here, here's your letter. "

As she received the missive she lifted her eyes, suffused, but full ofhope, to his, and said:--

"God grant you the heart to do it, sir, and bless you. "

The man laughed. Her eyes fell, she blushed, and, saying not a word, turned toward the door and had reached the threshold when the officercalled, with a certain ringing energy:--

"Mrs. Richling!"

She wheeled as if he had struck her, and answered:--

"What, sir!" Then, turning as red as a rose, she said, "O sir, that wascruel!" covered her face with her hands, and sobbed aloud. It was onlyas she was in the midst of these last words that she recognized in theofficer before her the sharper-visaged of those two men who had stood byher in Broadway. 

"Step back here, Mrs. Richling. "

She came. 

"Well, madam! I should like to know what we are coming to, when a ladylike you--a palpable, undoubted lady--can stoop to such deceptions!"

"Sir, " said Mary, looking at him steadfastly and then shaking her headin solemn asseveration, "all that I have said to you is the truth. "

"Then will you explain how it is that you go by one name in one part ofthe country, and by another in another part?"

"No, " she said. It was very hard to speak. The twitching of her mouthwould hardly let her form a word. "No--no--I can't--tell you. "

"Very well, ma'am. If you don't start back to Milwaukee by the nexttrain, and stay there, I shall"--

"Oh, don't say that, sir! I must go to my husband! Indeed, sir, it'snothing but a foolish mistake, made years ago, that's never harmed anyone but us. I'll take all the blame of it if you'll only give me apass!"

The officer motioned her to be silent. 

"You'll have to do as I tell you, ma'am. If not, I shall know it; youwill be arrested, and I shall give you a sort of pass that you'd be along time asking for. " He looked at the face mutely confronting him andfelt himself relenting. "I dare say this does sound very cruel to you, ma'am; but remember, this is a cruel war. I don't judge you. If I did, and could harden my heart as I ought to, I'd have you arrested now. But, I say, you'd better take my advice. Good-morning! _No, ma'am, I can'thear you!_ So, now, that's enough! Good-morning, madam!"

CHAPTER LIII. 

TRY AGAIN. 

One afternoon in the month of February, 1862, a locomotive engine and asingle weather-beaten passenger-coach, moving southward at a verymoderate speed through the middle of Kentucky, stopped in response to ahandkerchief signal at the southern end of a deep, rocky valley, and, ina patch of gray, snow-flecked woods, took on board Mary Richling, dressed in deep mourning, and her little Alice. The three or fourpassengers already in the coach saw no sign of human life through theclosed panes save the roof of one small cabin that sent up its slenderthread of blue smoke at one corner of a little badly cleared field aquarter of a mile away on a huge hill-side. As the scant train crawledoff again into a deep, ice-hung defile, it passed the silent figure of aman in butternut homespun, spattered with dry mud, standing close besidethe track on a heap of cross-tie cinders and fire-bent railroad iron, agray goat-beard under his chin, and a quilted homespun hat on his head. From beneath the limp brim of this covering, as the train moved by him, a tender, silly smile beamed upward toward one hastily raised window, whence the smile of Mary and the grave, unemotional gaze of the childmet it for a moment before the train swung round a curve in the narrowway, and quickened speed on down grade. 

The conductor came and collected her fare. He smelt of tobacco above thesmell of the coach in general. 

"Do you charge anything for the little girl?"

The purse in which the inquirer's finger and thumb tarried was limberand flat. 

"No, ma'am. "

It was not the customary official negative; a tawdry benevolence of facewent with it, as if to say he did not charge because he would not; andwhen Mary returned a faint beam of appreciation he went out upon therear platform and wiped the plenteous dust from his shoulders and cap. Then he returned to his seat at the stove and renewed his conversationwith a lieutenant in hard-used blue, who said "the rebel lines oughtnever to have been allowed to fall back to Nashville, " and who knew "howGrant could have taken Fort Donelson a week ago if he had had anysense. "

There were but few persons, as we have said, in the car. A rough man inone corner had a little captive, a tiny, dappled fawn, tied by a short, rough bit of rope to the foot of the car-seat. When the conductor by andby lifted the little Alice up from the cushion, where she sat with herbootees straight in front of her at its edge, and carried her, speechless and drawn together like a kitten, and stood her beside thecaptive orphan, she simply turned about and pattered back to hermother's side. 

"I don't believe she even saw it, " said the conductor, standing again byMary. 

"Yes, she did, " replied Mary, smiling upon the child's head as shesmoothed its golden curls; "she'll talk about it to-morrow. "

The conductor lingered a moment, wanting to put his own hand there, butdid not venture, perhaps because of the person sitting on the next seatbehind, who looked at him rather steadily until he began to move away. 

This was a man of slender, commanding figure and advanced years. Besidehim, next the window, sat a decidedly aristocratic woman, evidently hiswife. She, too, was of fine stature, and so, without leaning forwardfrom the back of her seat, or unfolding her arms, she could make kindeyes to Alice, as the child with growing frequency stole glances, atfirst over her own little shoulder, and later over her mother's, facingbackward and kneeling on the cushion. At length a cooky passed betweenthem in dead silence, and the child turned and gazed mutely in hermother's face, with the cooky just in sight. 

"It can't hurt her, " said the lady, in a sweet voice, to Mary, leaningforward with her hands in her lap. By the time the sun began to set ina cool, golden haze across some wide stretches of rolling fallow, aconversation had sprung up, and the child was in the lady's lap, herlittle hand against the silken bosom, playing with a costly watch. 

The talk began about the care of Alice, passed to the diet, and thento the government, of children, all in a light way, a similarity ofconvictions pleasing the two ladies more and more as they found it runfurther and further. Both talked, but the strange lady sustained theconversation, although it was plainly both a pastime and a comfort toMary. Whenever it threatened to flag the handsome stranger persisted inreviving it. 

Her husband only listened and smiled, and with one finger made every nowand then a soft, slow pass at Alice, who each time shrank as slowly andsoftly back into his wife's fine arm. Presently, however, Mary raisedher eyebrows a little and smiled, to see her sitting quietly in thegentleman's lap; and as she turned away and rested her elbow on thewindow-sill and her cheek on her hand in a manner that betrayedweariness, and looked out upon the ever-turning landscape, he murmuredto his wife, "I haven't a doubt in my mind, " and nodded significantly atthe preoccupied little shape in his arms. His manner with the child wasimperceptibly adroit, and very soon her prattle began to be heard. Marywas just turning to offer a gentle check to this rising volubility, whenup jumped the little one to a standing posture on the gentleman's knee, and, all unsolicited and with silent clapping of hands, plumped out herfull name:--

"Alice Sevier Witchlin'!"

The husband threw a quick glance toward his wife; but she avoided itand called Mary's attention to the sunset as seen through the oppositewindows. Mary looked and responded with expressions of admiration, butwas visibly disquieted, and the next moment called her child to her. 

"My little girl mustn't talk so loud and fast in the cars, " she said, with tender pleasantness, standing her upon the seat and brushing backthe stray golden waves from the baby's temples, and the brown ones, solike them, from her own. She turned a look of amused apology to thegentleman, and added, "She gets almost boisterous sometimes, " then gaveher regard once more to her offspring, seating the little one beside heras in the beginning, and answering her musical small questions withcomposing yeas and nays. 

"I suppose, " she said, after a pause and a look out through thewindow, --"I suppose we ought soon to be reaching M---- station, now, should we not?"

"What, in Tennessee? Oh! no, " replied the gentleman. "In ordinary timeswe should; but at this slow rate we cannot nearly do it. We're on aroad, you see, that was destroyed by the retreating army and made overby the Union forces. Besides, there are three trains of troops ahead ofus, that must stop and unload between here and there, and keep youwaiting, there's no telling how long. "

"Then I'll get there in the night!" exclaimed Mary. 

"Yes, probably after midnight. "

"Oh, I shouldn't have _thought_ of coming before to-morrow if I hadknown that!" In the extremity of her dismay she rose half from her seatand looked around with alarm. 

"Have you no friends expecting to receive you there?" asked the lady. 

"Not a soul! And the conductor says there's no lodging-place nearer thanthree miles"--

"And that's gone now, " said the gentleman. 

"You'll have to get out at the same station with us, " said the lady, hermanner kindness itself and at the same time absolute. 

"I think you have claims on us, anyhow, that we'd like to pay. "

"Oh! impossible, " said Mary. "You're certainly mistaking me. "

"I think you have, " insisted the lady; "that is, if your name isRichling. "

Mary blushed. 

"I don't think you know my husband, " she said; "he lives a long way fromhere. "

"In New Orleans?" asked the gentleman. 

"Yes, sir, " said Mary, boldly. She couldn't fear such good faces. 

"His first name is John, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. Do you really know John, sir?" The lines of pleasure anddistress mingled strangely in Mary's face. The gentleman smiled. Hetapped little Alice's head with the tips of his fingers. 

"I used to hold him on my knee when he was no bigger than this littleimage of him here. "

The tears leaped into Mary's eyes. 

"Mr. Thornton, " she whispered, huskily, and could say no more. 

"You must come home with us, " said the lady, touching her tenderly onthe shoulder. "It's a wonder of good fortune that we've met. Mr. Thornton has something to say to you, --a matter of business. He's thefamily's lawyer, you know. "

"I must get to my husband without delay, " said Mary. 

"Get to your husband?" asked the lawyer, in astonishment. 

"Yes, sir. "

"Through the lines?"

"Yes, sir. "

"I told him so, " said the lady. 

"I don't know how to credit it, " said he. "Why, my child, I don't thinkyou can possibly know what you are attempting. Your friends ought neverto have allowed you to conceive such a thing. You must let us dissuadeyou. It will not be taking too much liberty, will it? Has your husbandnever told you what good friends we were?"

Mary nodded and tried to speak. 

"Often, " said Mrs. Thornton to her husband, interpreting thehalf-articulated reply. 

They sat and talked in low tones, under the dismal lamp of the railroadcoach, for two or three hours. Mr. Thornton came around and took theseat in front of Mary, and sat with one leg under him, facing backtoward her. Mrs. Thornton sat beside her, and Alice slumbered on theseat behind, vacated by the lawyer and his wife. 

"You needn't tell me John's story, " said the gentleman; "I know it. WhatI didn't know before, I got from a man with whom I corresponded in NewOrleans. "

"Dr. Sevier?"

"No, a man who got it from the Doctor. "

So they had Mary tell her own story. 

"I thought I should start just as soon as my mother's health wouldpermit. John wouldn't have me start before that, and, after all, I don'tsee how I could have done it--rightly. But by the time she was well--orpartly well--every one was in the greatest anxiety and doubt everywhere. You know how it was. "

"Yes, " said Mrs. Thornton. 

"And everybody thinking everything would soon be settled, " continuedMary. 

"Yes, " said the sympathetic lady, and her husband touched her quietly, meaning for her not to interrupt. 

"We didn't think the Union _could_ be broken so easily, " pursued Mary. "And then all at once it was unsafe and improper to travel alone. StillI went to New York, to take steamer around by sea. But the last steamerhad sailed, and I had to go back home; for--the fact is, "--shesmiled, --"my money was all gone. It was September before I could raiseenough to start again; but one morning I got a letter from New Orleans, telling me that John was very ill, and enclosing money for me to travelwith. "

She went on to tell the story of her efforts to get a pass on the bankof the Ohio river, and how she had gone home once more, knowing she waswatched, not daring for a long time to stir abroad, and feeding on thefrequent hope that New Orleans was soon to be taken by one or another ofthe many naval expeditions that from time to time were, or were said tobe, sailing. 

"And then suddenly--my mother died. "

Mrs. Thornton gave a deep sigh. 

"And then, " said Mary, with a sudden brightening, but in a low voice, "Idetermined to make one last effort. I sold everything in the world I hadand took Alice and started. I've come very slowly, a little way at atime, feeling along, for I was resolved not to be turned back. I've beenweeks getting this far, and the lines keep moving south ahead of me. ButI haven't been turned back, " she went on to say, with a smile, "andeverybody, white and black, everywhere, has been just as kind as kindcan be. " Tears stopped her again. 

"Well, never mind, Mrs. Richling, " said Mrs. Thornton; then turned toher husband, and asked, "May I tell her?"

"Yes. "

"Well, Mrs. Richling, --but do you wish to be called Mrs. Richling?"

"Yes, " said Mary, and "Certainly, " said Mr. Thornton. 

"Well, Mrs. Richling, Mr. Thornton has some money for your husband. Nota great deal, but still--some. The younger of the two sisters died a fewweeks ago. She was married, but she was rich in her own right. She leftalmost everything to her sister; but Mr. Thornton persuaded her to leavesome money--well, two thousand--'tisn't much, but it's something, youknow--to--ah to Mr. Richling. Husband has it now at home and will giveit to you, --at the breakfast-table to-morrow morning; can't you, dear?"

"Yes. "

"Yes, and we'll not try to persuade you to give up your idea of going toNew Orleans. I know we couldn't do it. We'll watch our chance, --eh, husband?--and put you through the lines; and not only that, but giveyou letters to--why, dear, " said the lady, turning to her partner ingood works, "you can give Mrs. Richling a letter to Governor Blank; andanother to General Um-hm, can't you? and--yes, and one to Judge Youknow. Oh, they will take you anywhere! But first you'll stop with us till youget well rested--a week or two, or as much longer as you will. "

Mary pressed the speaker's hand. 

"I can't stay. "

"Oh, you know you needn't have the least fear of seeing any of John'srelatives. They don't live in this part of the State at all; and, evenif they did, husband has no business with them just now, and being aUnion man, you know"--

"I want to see my husband, " said Mary, not waiting to hear what Unionsympathies had to do with the matter. 

"Yes, " said the lady, in a suddenly subdued tone. "Well, we'll get youthrough just as quickly as we can. " And soon they all began to put onwraps and gather their luggage. Mary went with them to their home, laidher tired head beside her child's in sleep, and late next morning roseto hear that Fort Donelson was taken, and the Southern forces werefalling back. A day or two later came word that Columbus, on theMississippi, had been evacuated. It was idle for a woman to try justthen to perform the task she had set for herself. The Federal lines!

"Why, my dear child, they're trying to find the Confederate lines andstrike them. You can't lose anything--you may gain much--by remainingquiet here awhile. The Mississippi, I don't doubt, will soon be openfrom end to end. "

A fortnight seemed scarcely more than a day when it was past, andpresently two of them had gone. One day comes Mr. Thornton, saying:--

"My dear child, I cannot tell you how I have the news, but you maydepend upon its correctness. New Orleans is to be attacked by the mostpowerful naval expedition that ever sailed under the United States flag. If the place is not in our hands by the first of April I will put youthrough both lines, if I have to go with you myself. " When Mary made noanswer, he added, "Your delays have all been unavoidable, my child!"

"Oh, I don't know; I don't know!" exclaimed Mary, with suddendistraction; "it seems to me I _must_ be to blame, or I'd have beenthrough long ago. I ought to have _run through_ the lines. I ought tohave 'run the blockade. '"

"My child, " said the lawyer, "you're mad. "

"You'll see, " replied Mary, almost in soliloquy. 

CHAPTER LIV. 

"WHO GOES THERE?"

The scene and incident now to be described are without date. As Maryrecalled them, years afterward, they hung out against the memory a bold, clear picture, cast upon it as the magic lantern casts its tableaux uponthe darkened canvas. She had lost the day of the month, the day of theweek, all sense of location, and the points of the compass. The mostthat she knew was that she was somewhere near the meeting of theboundaries of three States. Either she was just within the southernbound of Tennessee, or the extreme north-eastern corner of Mississippi, or else the north-western corner of Alabama. She was aware, too, thatshe had crossed the Tennessee river; that the sun had risen on her leftand had set on her right, and that by and by this beautiful day wouldfade and pass from this unknown land, and the fire-light and lamp-lightdraw around them the home-groups under the roof-trees, here where shewas a homeless stranger, the same as in the home-lands where she hadonce loved and been beloved. 

She was seated in a small, light buggy drawn by one good horse. Besideher the reins were held by a rather tall man, of middle age, gray, dark, round-shouldered, and dressed in the loose blue flannel so much worn byfollowers of the Federal camp. Under the stiff brim of his soft-crownedblack hat a pair of clear eyes gave a continuous playful twinkle. Between this person and Mary protruded, at the edge of the buggy-seat, two small bootees that have already had mention, and from his elbow tohers, and back to his, continually swayed drowsily the little goldenhead to which the bootees bore a certain close relation. The dust of thehighway was on the buggy and the blue flannel and the bootees. It showedwith special boldness on a black sun-bonnet that covered Mary's head, and that somehow lost all its homeliness whenever it rose sufficientlyin front to show the face within. But the highway itself was not there;it had been left behind some hours earlier. The buggy was moving at aquiet jog along a "neighborhood road, " with unploughed fields on theright and a darkling woods pasture on the left. By the feathery softnessand paleness of the sweet-smelling foliage you might have guessed it wasnot far from the middle of April, one way or another; and, by certainallusions to Pittsburg Landing as a place of conspicuous note, you mighthave known that Shiloh had been fought. There was that feeling ofdesolation in the land that remains after armies have passed over, letthem tread never so lightly. 

"D'you know what them rails is put that way fur?" asked the man. Hepointed down with his buggy-whip just off the roadside, first on onehand and then on the other. 

"No, " said Mary, turning the sun-bonnet's limp front toward thequestioner and then to the disjointed fence on her nearer side; "that'swhat I've been wondering for days. They've been ordinary worm fences, haven't they?"

"Jess so, " responded the man, with his accustomed twinkle. "But I thinkI see you oncet or twicet lookin' at 'em and sort o' tryin' to make outhow come they got into that shape. " The long-reiterated W's of therail-fence had been pulled apart into separate V's, and the two sidesof each of these had been drawn narrowly together, so that what had beentwo parallel lines of fence, with the lane between, was now a longdouble row of wedge-shaped piles of rails, all pointing into the woodson the left. 

"How did it happen?" asked Mary, with a smile of curiosity. 

"Didn't happen at all, 'twas jess _done_ by live men, and in a powerfulfew minutes at that. Sort o' shows what we're approachin' unto, as itwere, eh? Not but they's plenty behind us done the same way, all the wayback into Kentuck', as you already done see; but this's been done sencethe last rain, and it rained night afore last. "

"Still I'm not sure what it means, " said Mary; "has there been fightinghere?"

"Go up head, " said the man, with a facetious gesture. "See? The fightcame through these here woods, here. 'Taint been much over twenty-fourhours, I reckon, since every one o' them-ah sort o' shut-up-fan-shapesort o' fish-traps had a gray-jacket in it layin' flat down an' firin'through the rails, sort o' random-like, only not much so. " His manner ofspeech seemed a sort of harlequin patchwork from the bad English of manysections, the outcome of a humorous and eclectic fondness for verbaldeformities. But his lightness received a sudden check. 

"Heigh-h-h!" he gravely and softly exclaimed, gathering the reinscloser, as the horse swerved and dashed ahead. Two or three buzzardsstarted up from the roadside, with their horrid flapping and whiff ofquills, and circled low overhead. "Heigh-h-h!" he continued soothingly. "Ho-o-o-o! somebody lost a good nag there, --a six-pound shot rightthrough his head and neck. Whoever made that shot killed two birds withone stone, sho!" He was half risen from his seat, looking back. As heturned again, and sat down, the drooping black sun-bonnet quiteconcealed the face within. He looked at it a moment. "If you think youdon't like the risks we can still turn back. "

"No, " said the voice from out the sun-bonnet; "go on. "

"If we don't turn back now we can't turn back at all. "

"Go on, " said Mary; "I can't turn back. "

"You're a good soldier, " said the man, playfully again. "You're a betterone than me, I reckon; I kin turn back frequently, as it were. I've doneit 'many a time and oft, ' as the felleh says. "

Mary looked up with feminine surprise. He made a pretence of silentlaughter, that showed a hundred crows' feet in his twinkling eyes. 

"Oh, don't you fret; I'm not goin' to run the wrong way with you incharge. Didn't you hear me promise Mr. Thornton? Well, you see, I've gota sort o' bad memory, that kind o' won't let me forgit when I make apromise;--bothers me that way a heap sometimes. " He smirked in aself-deprecating way, and pulled his hat-brim down in front. Presentlyhe spoke again, looking straight ahead over the horse's ears:--

"Now, that's the mischief about comin' with me--got to run bothblockades at oncet. Now, if you'd been a good Secesh and could somehowor 'nother of got a pass through the Union lines you'd of been all gay. But bein' Union, the fu'ther you git along the wuss off you air, 'less-nI kin take you and carry you 'way 'long yonder to where you kin jessjump onto a south-bound Rebel railroad and light down amongst folksthat'll never think o' you havin' run through the lines. "

"But you can't do that, " said Mary, not in the form of a request. "Youknow you agreed with Mr. Thornton that you would simply"--

"Put you down in a safe place, " said the man, jocosely; "that's what itmeant, and don't you get nervous"-- His face suddenly changed; heraised his whip and held it up for attention and silence, looking atMary, and smiling while he listened. "Do you hear anything?"

"Yes, " said Mary, in a hushed tone. There were some old fields on theright-hand now, and a wood on the left. Just within the wood aturtle-dove was cooing. 

"I don't mean that, " said the man, softly. 

"No, " said Mary, "you mean this, away over here. " She pointed across thefields, almost straight away in front. 

"'Taint so scandalous far 'awa-a-ay' as you talk like, " murmured theman, jestingly; and just then a fresh breath of the evening breezebrought plainer and nearer the soft boom of a bass-drum. 

"Are they coming this way?" asked Mary. 

"No; they're sort o' dress-paradin' in camp, I reckon. " He began to drawrein. "We turn off here, anyway, " he said, and drove slowly, but pointblank into the forest. 

"I don't see any road, " said Mary. It was so dark in the wood that evenher child, muffled in a shawl and asleep in her arms, was a dim shape. 

"Yes, " was the reply; "we have to sort o' smell out the way here; but mysmellers is good, at times, and pretty soon we'll strike a little sorto' somepnuther like a road, about a quarter from here. "

Pretty soon they did so. It started suddenly from the edge of an oldfield in the forest, and ran gradually down, winding among the trees, into a densely wooded bottom, where even Mary's short form often had tobend low to avoid the boughs of beech-trees and festoons of grape-vine. Under one beech the buggy stood still a moment. The man drew and openeda large clasp-knife and cut one of the long, tough withes. He handed itto Mary, as they started on again. 

"With compliments, " he said, "and hoping you won't find no use for it. "

"What is it for?"

"Why, you see, later on we'll be in the saddle; and if such a thingshould jess accidentally happen to happen, which I hope it won't, to besho', that I should happen to sort o' absent-mindedly yell out 'Go!'like as if a hornet had stabbed me, you jess come down with that switch, and make the critter under you run like a scared dog, as it were. "

"Must I?"

"No, I don't say you _must_, but you'd better, I bet you. You needn't ifyou don't want to. "

Presently the dim path led them into a clear, rippling creek, and seemedto Mary to end; but when the buggy wheels had crunched softly along downstream over some fifty or sixty yards of gravelly shallow, the roadshowed itself faintly again on the other bank, and the horse, with aplunge or two and a scramble, jerked them safely over the top, and movedforward in the direction of the rising moon. They skirted a small fieldfull of ghostly dead trees, where corn was beginning to make a show, turned its angle, and saw the path under their feet plain to view, smooth and hard. 

"See that?" said the man, in a tone of playful triumph, as the animalstarted off at a brisk trot, lifted his head and neighed. "'My day'swork's done, ' sezee; 'I done hoed my row. '" A responsive neigh came outof the darkness ahead. "That's the trick!" said the man. "Thanks, as thefelleh says. " He looked to Mary for her appreciation of his humor. 

"I suppose that means a good deal; does it?" asked she, with a smile. 

"Jess so! It means, first of all, fresh hosses. And then it means ahouse what aint been burnt by jayhawkers yit, and a man and womana-waitin' in it, and some bacon and cornpone, and maybe a little coffee;and milk, anyhow, till you can't rest, and buttermilk to fare-you-well. Now, have you ever learned the trick o' jess sort o' qui'lin'[2] up, cloze an' all, dry so, and puttin' half a night's rest into an hour'ssleep? 'Caze why, in one hour we must be in the saddle. No mo' buggy, and powerful few roads. Comes as nigh coonin' it as I reckon you ever'lowed you'd like to do, don't it?"

 [2] Coiling. 

He smiled, pretending to hold back much laughter, and Mary smiled too. At mention of a woman she had removed her bonnet and was smoothing herhair with her hand. 

"I don't care, " she said, "if only you'll bring us through. "

The man made a ludicrous gesture of self-abasement. 

"Not knowin', can't say, as the felleh says; but what I can tell you--Ialways start out to make a spoon or spoil a horn, and which one I'll doI seldom ever promise till it's done. But I have a sneakin' notion, asit were, that I'm the clean sand, and no discount, as Mr. Lincoln says, and I do my best. Angels can do no more, as the felleh says. "

He drew rein. "Whoa!" Mary saw a small log cabin, and a fire-lightshining under the bottom of the door. 

"The woods seem to be on fire just over there in three or four places, are they not?" she asked, as she passed the sleeping Alice down to theman, who had got out of the buggy. 

"Them's the camps, " said another man, who had come out of the house andwas letting the horse out of the shafts. 

"If we was on the rise o' the hill yonder we could see the Confedickcamps, couldn't we, Isaiah?" asked Mary's guide. 

"Easy, " said that prophet. "I heer 'em to-day two, three times, plain, cheerin' at somethin'. "

 * * *

About the middle of that night Mary Richling was sitting very still andupright on a large dark horse that stood champing his Mexican bit in theblack shadow of a great oak. Alice rested before her, fast asleepagainst her bosom. Mary held by the bridle another horse, whose nakedsaddle-tree was empty. A few steps in front of her the light of the fullmoon shone almost straight down upon a narrow road that just thereemerged from the shadow of woods on either side, and divided into a mainright fork and a much smaller one that curved around to Mary's left. Offin the direction of the main fork the sky was all aglow with camp-fires. Only just here on the left there was a cool and grateful darkness. 

She lifted her head alertly. A twig crackled under a tread, and the nextmoment a man came out of the bushes at the left, and without a word tookthe bridle of the led horse from her fingers and vaulted into thesaddle. The hand that rested a moment on the cantle as he rose grasped a"navy-six. " He was dressed in dull homespun but he was the same who hadbeen dressed in blue. He turned his horse and led the way down thelesser road. 

"If we'd of gone three hundred yards further, " he whispered, fallingback and smiling broadly, "we'd 'a' run into the pickets. I went nighenough to see the videttes settin' on their hosses in the main road. This here aint no road; it just goes up to a nigger quarters. I've gotone o' the niggers to show us the way. "

"Where is he?" whispered Mary; but, before her companion could answer, atattered form moved from behind a bush a little in advance and startedahead in the path, walking and beckoning. Presently they turned into aclear, open forest and followed the long, rapid, swinging stride of thenegro for nearly an hour. Then they halted on the bank of a deep, narrowstream. The negro made a motion for them to keep well to the right whenthey should enter the water. The white man softly lifted Alice to hisarms, directed and assisted Mary to kneel in her saddle, with her skirtsgathered carefully under her, and so they went down into the coldstream, the negro first, with arms outstretched above the flood; thenMary, and then the white man, --or, let us say plainly the spy, --with theunawakened child on his breast. And so they rose out of it on thefarther side without a shoe or garment wet save the rags of their darkguide. 

Again they followed him, along a line of stake-and-rider fence, with thewoods on one side and the bright moonlight flooding a field of youngcotton on the other. Now they heard the distant baying of house-dogs, now the doleful call of the chuck-will's-widow; and once Mary's bloodturned, for an instant, to ice, at the unearthly shriek of the hoot-owljust above her head. At length they found themselves in a dim, narrowroad, and the negro stopped. 

"Dess keep dish yeh road fo' 'bout half mile an' you strak 'pon thebroad, main road. Tek de right, an' you go whah yo' fancy tek you. "

"Good-by, " whispered Mary. 

"Good-by, miss, " said the negro, in the same low voice; "good-by, boss;don't you fo'git you promise tek me thoo to de Yankee' when you comeback. I 'feered you gwine fo'git it, boss. "

The spy said he would not, and they left him. The half-mile was soonpassed, though it turned out to be a mile and a half, and at lengthMary's companion looked back, as they rode single file, with Mary in therear, and said softly, "There's the road, " pointing at its broad, paleline with his six-shooter. 

As they entered it and turned to the right, Mary, with Alice againin her arms, moved somewhat ahead of her companion, her indifferenthorsemanship having compelled him to drop back to avoid a prickly bush. His horse was just quickening his pace to regain the lost position whena man sprang up from the ground on the farther side of the highway, snatched a carbine from the earth and cried, "Halt!"

The dark, recumbent forms of six or eight others could be seen, enveloped in their blankets, lying about a few red coals. Mary turned afrightened look backward and met the eyes of her companion. 

"Move a little faster, " said he, in a low, clear voice. As she promptlydid so she heard him answer the challenge. His horse trotted softlyafter hers. 

"Don't stop us, my friend; we're taking a sick child to the doctor. "

"Halt, you hound!" the cry rang out; and as Mary glanced back threeor four men were just leaping into the road. But she saw, also, hercompanion, his face suffused with an earnestness that was almost anagony, rise in his stirrups, with the stoop of his shoulders all gone, and wildly cry:--

"Go!"

She smote the horse and flew. Alice awoke and screamed. 

"Hush, my darling!" said the mother, laying on the withe; "mamma's here. Hush, darling!--mamma's here. Don't be frightened, darling baby! O God, spare my child!" and away she sped. 

The report of a carbine rang out and went rolling away in a thousandechoes through the wood. Two others followed in sharp succession, andthere went close by Mary's ear the waspish whine of a minie-ball. At thesame moment she recognized, once, --twice, --thrice, --just at her backwhere the hoofs of her companion's horse were clattering, --the tartrejoinders of his navy-six. 

"Go!" he cried again. "Lay low! lay low! cover the child!" But his wordswere needless. With head bowed forward and form crouched over thecrying, clinging child, with slackened rein and fluttering dress, andsun-bonnet and loosened hair blown back upon her shoulders, with lipscompressed and silent prayers, Mary was riding for life and liberty andher husband's bedside. 

"O mamma! mamma!" wailed the terrified little one. 

"Go on! Go on!" cried the voice behind; "they're saddling--up! Go! go!We're goin' to make it. We're goin' to _make_ it! Go-o-o!"

Half an hour later they were again riding abreast, at a moderate gallop. Alice's cries had been quieted, but she still clung to her mother in agreat tremor. Mary and her companion conversed earnestly in the subduedtone that had become their habit. 

"No, I don't think they followed us fur, " said the spy. "Seem likethey's jess some scouts, most likely a-comin' in to report, feelin'pooty safe and sort o' takin' it easy and careless; 'dreamin' the happyhours away, ' as the felleh says. I reckon they sort o' believed mystory, too, the little gal yelled so sort o' skilful. We kin slack upsome more now; we want to get our critters lookin' cool and quiet ag'inas quick as we kin, befo' we meet up with somebody. " They reined into agentle trot. He drew his revolver, whose emptied chambers he had alreadyrefilled. "D'd you hear this little felleh sing, 'Listen to themockin'-bird'?"

"Yes, " said Mary; "but I hope it didn't hit any of them. "

He made no reply. 

"Don't you?" she asked. 

He grinned. 

"D'you want a felleh to wish he was a bad shot?"

"Yes, " said Mary, smiling. 

"Well, seein' as you're along, I do. For they wouldn't give us up soeasy if I'd a hit one. Oh, --mine was only sort o' complimentaryshots, --much as to say, 'Same to you, gents, ' as the felleh says. "

Mary gave him a pleasant glance by way of courtesy, but was busy calmingthe child. The man let his weapon into its holster under his homespuncoat and lapsed into silence. He looked long and steadily at the smallfeminine figure of his companion. His eyes passed slowly from the kneethrown over the saddle's horn to the gentle forehead slightly bowed, asher face sank to meet the uplifted kisses of the trembling child, thenover the crown and down the heavy, loosened tresses that hid thesun-bonnet hanging back from her throat by its strings and flowed ondown to the saddle-bow. His admiring eyes, grave for once, had made thejourney twice before he noticed that the child was trying to comfort themother, and that the light of the sinking moon was glistening back fromMary's falling tears. 

"Better let me have the little one, " he said, "and you sort o' fix up alittle, befo' we happen to meet up with somebody, as I said. It's luckywe haven't done it already. "

A little coaxing prevailed with Alice, and the transfer was made. Maryturned away her wet eyes, smiling for shame of them, and began to coilher hair, her companion's eye following. 

"Oh, you aint got no business to be ashamed of a few tears. I knowed youwas a good soldier, befo' ever we started; I see' it in yo' eye. Not asI want to be complimentin' of you jess now. 'I come not here to talk, 'as they used to say in school. D'd you ever hear that piece?"

"Yes, " said Mary. 

"That's taken from Romans, aint it?"

"No, " said Mary again, with a broad smile. 

"I didn't know, " said the man; "I aint no brag Bible scholar. " He put ona look of droll modesty. "I used to could say the ten commandments ofthe decalogue, oncet, and I still tries to keep 'em, in ginerally. There's another burnt house. That's the third one we done passed insidea mile. Raiders was along here about two weeks back. Hear that roostercrowin'? When we pass the plantation whar he is and rise the next hill, we'll be in sight o' the little town whar we stop for refresh_ments_, asthe railroad man says. You must begin to feel jess about everlastin'lywore out, don't you?"

"No, " said Mary; but he made a movement of the head to indicate that hehad his belief to the contrary. 

At an abrupt angle of the road Mary's heart leaped into her throat tofind herself and her companion suddenly face to face with two horsemenin gray, journeying leisurely toward them on particularly good horses. One wore a slouched hat, the other a Federal officer's cap. They werethe first Confederates she had ever seen eye to eye. 

"Ride on a little piece and stop, " murmured the spy. The strangerslifted their hats respectfully as she passed them. 

"Gents, " said the spy, "good-morning!" He threw a leg over the pommel ofhis saddle and the three men halted in a group. One of them copied thespy's attitude. They returned the greeting in kind. 

"What command do you belong to?" asked the lone stranger. 

"Simmons's battery, " said one. "Whoa!"--to his horse. 

"Mississippi?" asked Mary's guardian. 

"Rackensack, " said the man in the blue cap. 

"Arkansas, " said the other in the same breath. "What is your command?"

"Signal service, " replied the spy. "Reckon I look mighty like a citizenjess about now, don't I?" He gave them his little laugh ofself-depreciation and looked toward Mary, where she had halted and wasletting her horse nip the new grass of the roadside. 

"See any troops along the way you come?" asked the man in the hat. 

"No; on'y a squad o' fellehs back yonder who was all unsaddled and fastasleep, and jumped up worse scared'n a drove o' wile hogs. We both sorto' got a little mad and jess swapped a few shots, you know, kind o' titfor tat, as it were. Enemy's loss unknown. " He stooped more than ever inthe shoulders, and laughed. The men were amused. "If you see 'em, I'dlike you to mention me"-- He paused to exchange smiles again. "Andtell 'em the next time they see a man hurryin' along with a lady andsick child to see the doctor, they better hold their fire till they shohe's on'y a citizen. " He let his foot down into the stirrup again andthey all smiled broadly. "Good-morning!" The two parties went theirways. 

"Jess as leave not of met up with them two buttermilk rangers, " said thespy, once more at Mary's side; "but seein' as thah we was the oniestthing was to put on all the brass I had. "

From the top of the next hill the travellers descended into a villagelying fast asleep, with the morning star blazing over it, the cockscalling to each other from their roosts, and here and there a lighttwinkling from a kitchen window, or a lazy axe-stroke smiting thelogs at a wood-pile. In the middle of the village one lone old man, half-dressed, was lazily opening the little wooden "store" thatmonopolized its commerce. The travellers responded to his silent bow, rode on through the place, passed over and down another hill, met anaged negro, who passed on the roadside, lifting his forlorn hat andbowing low; and, as soon as they could be sure they had gone beyond hissight and hearing, turned abruptly into a dark wood on the left. Twiceagain they turned to the left, going very warily through the deepshadows of the forest, and so returned half around the village, seeingno one. Then they stopped and dismounted at a stable-door, on theoutskirts of the place. The spy opened it with a key from his ownpocket, went in and came out again with a great armful of hay, which hespread for the horses' feet to muffle their tread, led them into thestable, removed the hay again, and closed and locked the door. 

"Make yourself small, " he whispered, "and walk fast. " They passed by agarden path up to the back porch and door of a small unpainted cottage. He knocked, three soft, measured taps. 

"Day's breakin', " he whispered again, as he stood with Alice asleep inhis arms, while somebody was heard stirring within. 

"Sam?" said a low, wary voice just within the unopened door. 

"Sister, " softly responded the spy, and the door swung inward, andrevealed a tall woman, with an austere but good face, that could just bemade out by the dim light of a tallow candle shining from the next room. The travellers entered and the door was shut. 

"Well, " said the spy, standing and smiling foolishly, and bendingplayfully in the shoulders, "well, Mrs. Richlin', "--he gave his hand alimp wave abroad and smirked, --"'In Dixie's land you take yo' stand. 'This is it. You're in it!--Mrs. Richlin', my sister; sister, Mrs. Richlin'. "

"Pleased to know ye, " said the woman, without the faintest ray ofemotion. "Take a seat and sit down. " She produced a chair bottomed withraw-hide. 

"Thank you, " was all Mary could think of to reply as she accepted theseat, and "Thank you" again when the woman brought a glass of water. Thespy laid Alice on a bed in sight of Mary in another chamber. He cameback on tiptoe. 

"Now, the next thing is to git you furder south. Wust of it is that, seein' as you got sich a weakness fur tellin' the truth, we'll jess haveto sort o' slide you along fum one Union man to another; sort o' holefass what I give ye, as you used to say yourself, I reckon. But you'vegot one strong holt. " His eye went to his sister's, and he started awaywithout a word, and was presently heard making a fire, while the womanwent about spreading a small table with cold meats and corn-bread, milkand butter. Her brother came back once more. 

"Yes, " he said to Mary, "you've got one mighty good card, and that's itin yonder on the bed. 'Humph!' folks'll say; 'didn't come fur with thatthere baby, sho!'"

"I wouldn't go far without her, " said Mary, brightly. 

"_I_ say, " responded the hostess, with her back turned, and said nomore. 

"Sister, " said the spy, "we'll want the buggy. "

"All right, " responded the sister. 

"I'll go feed the hosses, " said he, and went out. In a few minutes hereturned. "Joe must give 'em a good rubbin' when he comes, sister, " hesaid. 

"All right, " replied the woman, and then turning to Mary, "Come. "

"What, ma'm?"

"Eat. " She touched the back of a chair. "Sam, bring the baby. " She stoodand waited on the table. 

Mary was still eating, when suddenly she rose up, saying:--

"Why, where is Mr. ----, your brother?"

"He's gone to take a sleep outside, " said his sister. "It's too reskyfor him to sleep in a house. "

She faintly smiled, for the first time, at the end of this long speech. 

"But, " said Mary, "oh, I haven't uttered a word of thanks. What will hethink of me?"

She sank into her chair again with an elbow on the table, and looked upat the tall standing figure on the other side, with a little laugh ofmortification. 

"You kin thank God, " replied the figure. "_He_ aint gone. " Another ghostof a smile was seen for a moment on the grave face. "Sam aint thinkin'about that. You hurry and finish and lay down and sleep, and when youwake up he'll be back here ready, to take you along furder. That's ahealthy little one. She wants some more buttermilk. Give it to her. Ifshe don't drink it the pigs'll git it, as the ole woman says. . . . Now youbetter lay down on the bed in yonder and go to sleep. Jess sort o'loosen yo' cloze; don't take off noth'n' but dress and shoes. Youneedn't be afeard to sleep sound; I'm goin' to keep a lookout. "

CHAPTER LV. 

DIXIE. 

In her sleep Mary dreamed over again the late rencontre. Again she heardthe challenging outcry, and again was lashing her horse to his utmostspeed; but this time her enemy seemed too fleet for her. He overtook--helaid his hand upon her. A scream was just at her lips, when she awokewith a wild start, to find the tall woman standing over her, and biddingher in a whisper rise with all stealth and dress with all speed. 

"Where's Alice?" asked Mary. "Where's my little girl?"

"She's there. Never mind her yit, till you're dressed. Here; not themcloze; these here homespun things. Make haste, but don't get excited. "

"How long have I slept?" asked Mary, hurriedly obeying. 

"You couldn't 'a' more'n got to sleep. Sam oughtn't to have shot back at'em. They're after 'im, hot; four of 'em jess now passed through on theroad, right here past my front gate. "

"What kept them back so long?" asked Mary, tremblingly attempting tobutton her dress in the back. 

"Let me do that, " said the woman. "They couldn't come very fast; had tokind o' beat the bushes every hundred yards or so. If they'd of beenmore of 'em they'd a-come faster, 'cause they'd a-left one or two behindat each turn-out, and come along with the rest. There; now that therehat, there, on the table. " As Mary took the hat the speaker stepped to awindow and peeped into the early day. A suppressed exclamation escapedher. "O you poor boy!" she murmured. Mary sprang toward her, but thestronger woman hurried her away from the spot. 

"Come; take up the little one 'thout wakin' her. Three more of 'em'sa-passin'. The little young feller in the middle reelin' and swayin' inhis saddle, and t'others givin' him water from his canteen. "

"Wounded?" asked Mary, with a terrified look, bringing the sleepingchild. 

"Yes, the last wound he'll ever git, I reckon. Jess take the baby, so. Sam's already took her cloze. He's waitin' out in the woods here behindthe house. He's got the critters down in the hollow. Now, here! Thishere bundle's a ridin'-skirt. It's not mournin', but you mustn't mind. It's mighty green and cottony-lookin', but--anyhow, you jess put it onwhen you git into the woods. Now it's good sun-up outside. The way youmust do--you jess keep on the lef' side o' me, close, so as when I jesssanter out e-easy todes the back gate you'll be hid from all the otherhouses. Then when we git to the back gate I'll kind o' stand like I waslookin' into the pig-pen, and you jess slide away on a line with me intothe woods, and there'll be Sam. No, no; take your hat off and sort o'hide it. Now; you ready?"

Mary threw her arms around the woman's neck and kissed her passionately. 

"Oh, don't stop for that!" said the woman, smiling with an awkwarddiffidence. "Come!"

 * * *

"What is the day of the month?" asked Mary of the spy. 

They had been riding briskly along a mere cattle-path in the woods forhalf an hour, and had just struck into an old, unused road that promisedto lead them presently into and through some fields of cotton. Alice, slumbering heavily, had been, little by little, dressed, and was now inthe man's arms. As Mary spoke they slackened pace to a quiet trot, andcrossed a broad highway nearly at right angles. 

"That would 'a' been our road with the buggy, " said the man, "if wecould of took things easy. " They were riding almost straight away fromthe sun. His dress had been changed again, and in a suit of new, darkbrown homespun wool, over a pink calico shirt and white cuffs andcollar, he presented the best possible picture of spruce gentility thatthe times would justify. "'What day of the month, ' did you ask? _I_'llnever tell you, but I know it's Friday. "

"Then it's the eighteenth, " said Mary. 

They met an old negro driving three yoke of oxen attached to a singleempty cart. 

"Uncle, " said the spy, "I don't reckon the boss will mind our sort o'ridin' straight thoo his grove, will he?"

"Not 'tall, boss; on'y dess be so kyine an' shet de gates behine you, sah. "

They passed those gates and many another, shutting them faithfully, andjourneying on through miles of fragrant lane and fields of young cottonand corn, and stretches of wood where the squirrel scampered before themand reaches of fallow grounds still wet with dew, and patches of sedge, and old fields grown up with thickets of young trees; now pushing theirhorses to a rapid gallop, where they were confident of escaping notice, and now ambling leisurely, where the eyes of men afield, or of women athome, followed them with rustic scrutiny; or some stragglingConfederate soldier on foot or in the saddle met them in the way. 

"How far must we go before we can stop?" asked Mary. 

"Jess as far's the critters'll take us without showin' distress. "

"South is out that way, isn't it?" she asked again, pointing off to theleft. 

"Look here, " said the spy, with a look that was humorous, but not onlyhumorous. 

"What?"

"Two or three times last night, and now ag'in, you gimme a sort o'sneakin' notion you don't trust me, " said he. 

"Oh!" exclaimed she, "I do! Only I'm so anxious to be going south. "

"Jess so, " said the man. "Well, we're goin' sort o' due west right now. You see we dassent take this railroad anywheres about here, "--they wereeven then crossing the track of the Mobile and Ohio Railway--"becausethat's jess where they _sho_ to be on the lookout fur us. And I can'ttake you straight south on the dirt roads, because I don't know thecountry down that way. But this way I know it like your hand knows theway to your mouth, as the felleh says. Learned it most all sence the warbroke out, too. And so the whole thing is we got to jess keep straightacross the country here till we strike the Mississippi Central. "

"What time will that be?"

"Time! You don't mean time o' day, do you?" he asked. 

"Yes, " said Mary, smiling. 

"Why, we'll be lucky to make it in two whole days. Won't we, Alice!" Thechild had waked, and was staring into her mother's face. Mary caressedher. The spy looked at them silently. The mother looked up, as if tospeak, but was silent. 

"Hello!" said the man, softly; for a tear shone through her smile. Whereat she laughed. 

"I ought to be ashamed to be so unreasonable, " she said. 

"Well, now, I'd like to contradict you for once, " responds the spy; "butthe fact is, how kin I, when Noo Orleens is jest about south-west frumhere, anyhow?"

"Yes, " said Mary, pleasantly, "it's between south and south-west. "

The spy made a gesture of mock amazement. 

"Well, you air partickly what you say. I never hear o' but one partythat was more partickly than you. I reckon you never hear' tell o' him, did you?"

"Who was he?" asked Mary. 

"Well, I never got his name, nor his habitation, as the felleh says; buthe was so conscientious that when a highwayman attackted him onct, hewouldn't holla murder nor he wouldn't holla thief, 'cause he wasn'tcertain whether the highwayman wanted to kill him or rob him. He wassomething like George Washington, who couldn't tell a lie. Did you everhear that story about George Washington?"

"About his chopping the cherry-tree with his hatchet?" asked Mary. 

"Oh, I see you done heard the story!" said the spy, and left it untold;but whether he was making game of his auditor or not she did not know, and never found out. But on they went, by many a home; through miles ofgrowing crops, and now through miles of lofty pine forests, and bylog-cabins and unpainted cottages, from within whose open doors cameoften the loud feline growl of the spinning-wheel. So on and on, Mary spending the first night in a lone forest cabin of pine poles, whose master, a Confederate deserter, fed his ague-shaken wife andcotton-headed children oftener with the spoils of his rifle than withthe products of the field. The spy and the deserter lay down together, and together rose again with the dawn, in a deep thicket, a few hundredyards away. 

The travellers had almost reached the end of this toilsome horsebackjourney, when rains set in, and, for forty-eight hours more, swollenfloods and broken bridges held them back, though within hearing of thelocomotive's whistle. 

But at length, one morning, Mary stepped aboard the train that had notlong before started south from the town of Holly Springs, Mississippi, assisted with decorous alacrity by the conductor, and followed by thestation-agent with Alice in his arms, and by the telegraph-operatorwith a home-made satchel or two of luggage and luncheon. It wasdisgusting, --to two thin, tough-necked women, who climbed aboard, unassisted, at the other end of the same coach. 

"You kin just bet she's a widder, and them fellers knows it, " said oneto the other, taking a seat and spitting expertly through the window. 

"If she aint, " responded the other, putting a peeled snuff-stick intoher cheek, "then her husband's got the brass buttons, and they knowsthat. Look at 'er a-smi-i-ilin'!"

"What you reckon makes her look so wore out?" asked the first. And theother replied promptly, with unbounded loathing, "Dayncin', " and senther emphasis out of the window in liquid form without disturbing herintervening companion. 

During the delay caused by the rain Mary had found time to refit herborrowed costume. Her dress was a stout, close-fitting homespun of mixedcotton and wool, woven in a neat plaid of walnut-brown, oak-red, and thepale olive dye of the hickory. Her hat was a simple round thing of wovenpine straw, with a slightly drooping brim, its native brown glossundisturbed, and the low crown wrapped about with a wreath of wildgrasses plaited together with a bit of yellow cord. Alice wore amuch-washed pink calico frock and a hood of the same stuff. 

"Some officer's wife, " said two very sweet and lady-like persons, ofunequal age and equal good taste in dress, as their eyes took aninventory of her apparel. They wore bonnets that were quite handsome, and had real false flowers and silk ribbons on them. 

"Yes, she's been to camp somewhere to see him. "

"Beautiful child she's got, " said one, as Alice began softly to smiteher mother's shoulder for private attention, and to whisper gravely asMary bent down. 

Two or three soldiers took their feet off the seats, and one of them, atthe amiably murmured request of the conductor, put his shoes on. 

"The car in front is your car, " said the conductor to another man, inespecially dirty gray uniform. 

"You kin hev it, " said the soldier, throwing his palm open with an airof happy extravagance, and a group of gray-headed "citizens, " justbehind, exploded a loud country laugh. 

"D' I onderstaynd you to lafe at me, saw?" drawled the soldier, turningback with a pretence of heavy gloom on his uncombed brow. 

"Laughin' at yo' friend yondeh, " said one of the citizens, grinning andwaving his hand after the departing conductor. 

"'Caze if you lafe at me again, saw, "--the frown deepened, --"I'll thessgo 'ight straight out iss caw. "[3]

 [3] Out of this car. 

The laugh that followed this dreadful threat was loud and general, thevictims laughing loudest of all, and the soldier smiling about benignly, and slowly scratching his elbows. Even the two ladies smiled. Alice'sface remained impassive. She looked twice into her mother's to see ifthere was no smile there. But the mother smiled at her, took off herhood and smoothed back the fine gold, then put the hood on again, andtied its strings under the upstretched chin. 

Presently Alice pulled softly at the hollow of her mother's elbow. 

"Mamma--mamma!" she whispered. Mary bowed her ear. The child gazedsolemnly across the car at another stranger, then pulled the mother'sarm again, "That man over there--winked at me. "

And thereupon another man, sitting sidewise on the seat in front, andlooking back at Alice, tittered softly, and said to Mary, with a rawdrawl:--

"She's a-beginnin' young. "

"She means some one on the other side, " said Mary, quite pleasantly, andthe man had sense enough to hush. 

The jest and the laugh ran to and fro everywhere. It seemed very strangeto Mary to find it so. There were two or three convalescent wounded menin the car, going home on leave, and they appeared never to weary of thethreadbare joke of calling their wounds "furloughs. " There was onelittle slip of a fellow--he could hardly have been seventeen--wounded inthe hand, whom they kept teazed to the point of exasperation by urginghim to confess that he had shot himself for a furlough, and of whomthey said, later, when he had got off at a flag station, that he was thebravest soldier in his company. No one on the train seemed to feel thathe had got all that was coming to him until the conductor had exchangeda jest with him. The land laughed. On the right hand and on the left itdimpled and wrinkled in gentle depressions and ridges, and rolled awayin fields of young corn and cotton. The train skipped and clatteredalong at a happy-go-lucky, twelve-miles-an-hour gait, over trestlesand stock-pits, through flowery cuts and along slender, rain-washedembankments where dewberries were ripening, and whence cattle ran downand galloped off across the meadows on this side and that, tails up andheads down, throwing their horns about, making light of the screamingdestruction, in their dumb way, as the people made light of the war. Atstations where the train stopped--and it stopped on the faintestexcuse--a long line of heads and gray shoulders was thrust out of thewindows of the soldiers' car, in front, with all manner of masculinehead-coverings, even bloody handkerchiefs; and woe to the negro ornegress or "citizen" who, by any conspicuous demerit or excellence ofdress, form, stature, speech, or bearing, drew the fire of that line! Nohuman power of face or tongue could stand the incessant volley of stalequips and mouldy jokes, affirmative, interrogative, and exclamatory, that fell about their victim. 

At one spot, in a lovely natural grove, where the air was spiced withthe gentle pungency of the young hickory foliage, the train paused amoment to let off a man in fine gray cloth, whose yellow stripes and onegolden star on the coat-collar indicated a major of cavalry. It seemedas though pandemonium had opened. Mules braying, negroes yodling, axesringing, teamsters singing, men shouting and howling, and all atnothing; mess-fires smoking all about in the same hap-hazard, butroomy, disorder in which the trees of the grove had grown; the railroadside lined with a motley crowd of jolly fellows in spurs, and theatmosphere between them and the line of heads in the car-windows murkywith the interchange of compliments that flew back and forth from the"web-foots"[4] to the "critter company, " and from the "critter company"to the "web-foots. " As the train moved off, "I say, boys, " drawled alank, coatless giant on the roadside, with but one suspender and onespur, "tha-at's right! Gen'l Beerygyard told you to strike fo' yo'homes, an' I see you' a-doin' it ez fass as you kin git thah. " And the"citizens" in the rear car-windows giggled even at that; while the"web-foots" he-hawed their derision, and the train went on, as one mightsay, with its hands in its pockets, whooping and whistling over thefields--after the cows; for the day was declining. 

 [4] Infantry. 

Mary was awed. As she had been forewarned to do, she tried not to seemunaccustomed to, or out of harmony with, all this exuberance. But therewas something so brave in it, coming from a people who were playing alosing game with their lives and fortunes for their stakes; something sogallant in it, laughing and gibing in the sight of blood, and smell offire, and shortness of food and raiment, that she feared she hadbetrayed a stranger's wonder and admiration every time the trainstopped, and the idlers of the station platform lingered about herwindow and silently paid their ungraceful but complimentary tribute ofsimulated casual glances. 

For, with all this jest, it was very plain there was but little joy. Itwas not gladness; it was bravery. It was the humor of an invinciblespirit--the gayety of defiance. She could easily see the grimearnestness beneath the jocund temper, and beneath the unrepining smilethe privation and the apprehension. What joy there was, was a martialjoy. The people were confident of victory at last, --a victorious end, whatever might lie between, and of even what lay between they wouldconfess no fear. Richmond was safe, Memphis safer, New Orleans safest. Yea, notwithstanding Porter and Farragut were pelting away at FortsJackson and St. Philip. Indeed, if the rumor be true, if Farragut'sships had passed those forts, leaving Porter behind, then the Yankeesea-serpent was cut in two, and there was an end of him in thatdirection. Ha! ha!

"Is to-day the twenty-sixth?" asked Mary, at last, of one of the ladiesin real ribbons, leaning over toward her. 

"Yes, ma'am. "

It was the younger one who replied. As she did so she came over and satby Mary. 

"I judge, from what I heard your little girl asking you, that you aregoing beyond Jackson. "

"I'm going to New Orleans. "

"Do you live there?" The lady's interest seemed genuine and kind. 

"Yes. I am going to join my husband there. "

Mary saw by the reflection in the lady's face that a sudden gladnessmust have overspread her own. 

"He'll be mighty glad, I'm sure, " said the pleasant stranger, pattingAlice's cheek, and looking, with a pretty fellow-feeling, first into thechild's face and then into Mary's. 

"Yes, he will, " said Mary, looking down upon the curling locks at herelbow with a mother's happiness. 

"Is he in the army?" asked the lady. 

Mary's face fell. 

"His health is bad, " she replied. 

"I know some nice people down in New Orleans, " said the lady again. 

"We haven't many acquaintances, " rejoined Mary, with a timidity that wasalmost trepidation. Her eyes dropped, and she began softly to smoothAlice's collar and hair. 

"I didn't know, " said the lady, "but you might know some of them. Forinstance, there's Dr. Sevier. "

Mary gave a start and smiled. 

"Why, is he your friend too?" she asked. She looked up into the lady'squiet, brown eyes and down again into her own lap, where her hands hadsuddenly knit together, and then again into the lady's face. "We have nofriend like Dr. Sevier. "

"Mother, " called the lady softly, and beckoned. The senior lady leanedtoward her. "Mother, this lady is from New Orleans and is an intimatefriend of Dr. Sevier. "

The mother was pleased. 

"What might one call your name?" she asked, taking a seat behind Maryand continuing to show her pleasure. 

"Richling. "

The mother and daughter looked at each other. They had never heard thename before. 

Yet only a little while later the mother was saying to Mary, --they wereexpecting at any moment to hear the whistle for the terminus of theroute, the central Mississippi town of Canton:--

"My dear child, no! I couldn't sleep to-night if I thought you was allalone in one o' them old hotels in Canton. No, you must come home withus. We're barely two mile' from town, and we'll have the carriage readyfor you bright and early in the morning, and our coachman will put youon the cars just as nice--Trouble?" She laughed at the idea. "No; I tellyou what would trouble me, --that is, if we'd allow it; that'd be for youto stop in one o' them hotels all alone, child, and like' as not somecareless servant not wake you in time for the cars to-morrow. " At thisword she saw capitulation in Mary's eyes. "Come, now, my child, we'renot going to take no for an answer. "

Nor did they. 

But what was the result? The next morning, when Mary and Alice stoodready for the carriage, and it was high time they were gone, thecarriage was not ready; the horses had got astray in the night. Andwhile the black coachman was on one horse, which he had found andcaught, and was scouring the neighboring fields and lanes and meadowsin search of the other, there came out from townward upon the still, country air the long whistle of the departing train; and then thedistant rattle and roar of its far southern journey began, and thenits warning notes to the scattering colts and cattle. 

"Look away!"--it seemed to sing--"Look away!"--the notes fading, failing, on the ear, --"away--away--away down south in Dixie, "--the lasttrain that left for New Orleans until the war was over. 

CHAPTER LVI. 

FIRE AND SWORD. 

The year the war began dates also, for New Orleans, the advent of twobetter things: street-cars and the fire-alarm telegraph. The franticincoherence of the old alarum gave way to the few solemn, numberedstrokes that called to duty in the face of hot danger, like the electricvoice of a calm commander. The same new system also silenced, once forall, the old nine-o'clock gun. For there were not only taps to signifyeach new fire-district, --one for the first, two for the second, three, four, five, six seven, eight, and nine, --but there was also one lonetoll at mid-day for the hungry mechanic, and nine at the evening hourwhen the tired workman called his children in from the street and turnedto his couch, and the slave must show cause in a master's handwritingwhy he or she was not under that master's roof. 

And then there was one signal more. Fire is a dreadful thing, and allthe alarm signals were for fire except this one. Yet the profoundestwish of every good man and tender women in New Orleans, when thispleasing novelty of electro-magnetic warnings was first published forthe common edification, was that mid-day or midnight, midsummer ormidwinter, let come what might of danger or loss or distress, that oneparticular signal might not sound. Twelve taps. Anything but that. 

Dr. Sevier and Richling had that wish together. They had many wishesthat were greatly at variance the one's from the other's. The Doctorhad struggled for the Union until the very smoke of war began to riseinto the sky; but then he "went with the South. " He was the only one inNew Orleans who knew--whatever some others may have suspected--thatRichling's heart was on the other side. Had Richling's bodily strengthremained, so that he could have been a possible factor, however small, in the strife, it is hard to say whether they could have been togetherday by day and night by night, as they came to be when the Doctor tookthe failing man into his own home, and have lived in amity, as they did. But there is this to be counted; they were both, though from differentdirections, for peace, and their gentle forbearance toward each othertaught them a moderation of sentiment concerning the whole great issue. And, as I say, they both together held the one longing hope that, whatever war should bring of final gladness or lamentation, the steeplesof New Orleans might never toll--twelve. 

But one bright Thursday April morning, as Richling was sitting, halfdressed, by an open window of his room in Dr. Sevier's house, leaning onthe arm of his soft chair and looking out at the passers on the street, among whom he had begun to notice some singular evidences of excitement, there came from a slender Gothic church-spire that was highest of all inthe city, just beyond a few roofs in front of him, the clear, sudden, brazen peal of its one great bell. 

"Fire, " thought Richling; and yet, he knew not why, wondered where Dr. Sevier might be. He had not seen him that morning. A high official hadsent for him at sunrise and he had not returned. 

"Clang, " went the bell again, and the softer ding--dang--dong of others, struck at the same instant, came floating in from various distances. And then it clanged again--and again--and again--the loud one near, the soft ones, one by one, after it--six, seven, eight, nine--ah!stop there! stop there! But still the alarm pealed on; ten--alas!alas!--eleven--oh, oh, the women and children!--twelve! And then thefainter, final asseverations of the more distant bells--twelve! twelve!twelve!--and a hundred and seventy thousand souls knew by that sign thatthe foe had passed the forts. New Orleans had fallen. 

Richling dressed himself hurriedly and went out. Everywhere drums werebeating to arms. Couriers and aides-de-camp were galloping here andthere. Men in uniform were hurrying on foot to this and that rendezvous. Crowds of the idle and poor were streaming out toward the levee. Carriages and cabs rattled frantically from place to place; men ranout-of-doors and leaped into them and leaped out of them and sprang upstair-ways; hundreds of all manner of vehicles, fit and unfit to carrypassengers and goods, crowded toward the railroad depots and steam-boatlandings; women ran into the streets wringing their hands and holdingtheir brows; and children stood in the door-ways and gate-ways andtrembled and called and cried. 

Richling took the new Dauphine street-car. Far down in the Thirddistrict, where there was a silence like that of a village lane, heapproached a little cottage painted with Venetian red, setting in itsgarden of oranges, pomegranates, and bananas, and marigolds, andcoxcombs behind its white paling fence and green gate. 

The gate was open. In it stood a tall, strong woman, good-looking, rosy, and neatly dressed. That she was tall you could prove by the gate, andthat she was strong, by the graceful muscularity with which she heldtwo infants, --pretty, swarthy little fellows, with joyous black eyes, and evidently of one age and parentage, --each in the hollow of a fine, round arm. There was just a hint of emotional disorder in her shininghair and a trace of tears about her eyes. As the visitor drew near, afresh show of distressed exaltation was visible in the slight play ofher form. 

"Ah! Mr. Richlin', " she cried, the moment he came within hearing, "'thedispot's heels is on our shores!'" Tears filled her eyes again. Mike, the bruiser, in his sixth year, who had been leaning backward againsther knees and covering his legs with her skirts, ran forward and claspedthe visitor's lower limbs with the nerve and intention of a wrestler. Kate followed with the cherubs. They were Raphael's. 

"Yes, it's terrible, " said Richling. 

"Ah! no, Mr. Richlin', " replied Kate, lifting her head proudly as shereturned with him toward the gate, "it's outrageouz; but it's notterrible. At least it's not for me, Mr. Richlin'. I'm only Mrs. CaptainRistofalah; and whin I see the collonels' and gin'r'ls' ladiesa-prancin' around in their carridges I feel my _humility_; but it's mydjuty to be _brave_, sur! An' I'll help to _fight_ thim, sur, if the mincan't do ud. Mr. Richlin', my husband is the intimit frind of Gin'r'lGarrybaldy, sur! I'll help to burrin the cittee, sur!--rather nor giveud up to thim vandjals! Come in, Mr. Richlin'; come in. " She led the wayup the narrow shell-walk. "Come 'n, sur, it may be the last time ye' doud before the flames is leppin' from the roof! Ah! I knowed ye'd come. Iwas a-lookin' for ye. I knowed _ye'd_ prove yerself that frind in needthat he's the frind indeed! Take a seat an' sit down. " She faced abouton the vine-covered porch, and dropped into a rocking-chair, her eyesstill at the point of overflow. "But ah! Mr. Richlin', where's all thimflatterers that fawned around uz in the days of tytled prosperity?"

Richling said nothing; he had not seen any throngs of that sort. 

"Gone, sur! and it's a relief; it's a relief, Mr. Richlin'!" Shemarshalled the twins on her lap, Carlo commanding the right, Franciscothe left. 

"You mustn't expect too much of them, " said Richling, drawing Mikebetween his knees, "in such a time of alarm and confusion as this. " AndKate responded generously:--

"Well, I suppose you're right, sur. "

"I've come down, " resumed the visitor, letting Mike count off "Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief, " on the buttons of his coat, "to give youany help I can in getting ready to leave town. For you mustn't think ofstaying. It isn't possible to be anything short of dreadful to stay in acity occupied by hostile troops. It's almost certain the Confederateswill try to hold the city, and there may be a bombardment. The city maybe taken and retaken half-a-dozen times before the war is over. "

"Mr. Richlin', " said Kate, with a majestic lifting of the hand, "I'llnivver rin away from the Yanks. "

"No, but you must _go_ away from them. You mustn't put yourself in sucha position that you can't go to your husband if he needs you, Mrs. Ristofalo; don't get separated from him. "

"Ah! Mr. Richlin', it's you as has the right to say so; and I'll do asyou say. Mr. Richlin', my husband"--her voice trembled--"may be woundedthis hour. I'll go, sur, indeed I will; but, sur, if Captain RaphaelRistofalah wor _here_, sur, he'd be ad the _front_, sur, and KateRistofalah would be at his galliant side!"

"Well, then, I'm glad he's not here, " rejoined Richling, "for I'd haveto take care of the children. "

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Kate. "No, sur! I'd take the lion's whelps withme, sur! Why, that little Mike theyre can han'le the dthrum-sticks tobeat the felley in the big hat!" And she laughed again. 

They made arrangements for her and the three children to go "outinto the confederacy" within two or three days at furthest; as soonas she and her feeble helper could hurry a few matters of business tocompletion at and about the Picayune Tier. Richling did not get back tothe Doctor's house until night had fallen and the sky was set aglare byseven miles' length of tortuous harbor front covered with millions'worth of burning merchandise. The city was being evacuated. 

Dr. Sevier and he had but few words. Richling was dejected fromweariness, and his friend weary with dejections. 

"Where have you been all day?" asked the Doctor, with a touch ofirritation. 

"Getting Kate Ristofalo ready to leave the city. "

"You shouldn't have left the house; but it's no use to tell youanything. Has she gone?"

"No. "

"Well, in the name of common-sense, then, when is she going?"

"In two or three days, " replied Richling, almost in retort. 

The Doctor laughed with impatience. 

"If you feel responsible for her going get her off by to-morrowafternoon at the furthest. " He dropped his tired head against the backof his chair. 

"Why, " said Richling, "I don't suppose the fleet can fight its waythrough all opposition and get here short of a week. "

The Doctor laid his long fingers upon his brow and rolled his head fromside to side. Then, slowly raising it:--

"Well, Richling!" he said, "there must have been some mistake made whenyou was put upon the earth. "

Richling's thin cheek flushed. The Doctor's face confessed the bitterestresentment. 

"Why, the fleet is only eighteen miles from here now. " He ceased, andthen added, with sudden kindness of tone, "I want you to do somethingfor me, will you?"

"Yes. "

"Well, then, go to bed; I'm going. You'll need every grain of strengthyou've got for to-morrow. I'm afraid then it will not be enough. This isan awful business, Richling. "

They went upstairs together. As they were parting at its top Richlingsaid:--

"You told me a few days ago that if the city should fall, which wedidn't expect"--

"That I'd not leave, " said the Doctor. "No; I shall stay. I haven't thestamina to take the field, and I can't be a runaway. Anyhow, I couldn'ttake you along. You couldn't bear the travel, and I wouldn't go andleave you here, Richling--old fellow!"

He laid his hand gently on the sick man's shoulder, who made noresponse, so afraid was he that another word would mar the perfection ofthe last. 

When Richling went out the next morning the whole city was in an ecstasyof rage and terror. Thousands had gathered what they could in theirhands, and were flying by every avenue of escape. Thousands ran hitherand thither, not knowing where or how to fly. He saw the wife and sonof the silver-haired banker rattling and bouncing away toward one of therailway depots in a butcher's cart. A messenger from Kate by good chancemet him with word that she would be ready for the afternoon train of theJackson Railroad, and asking anew his earliest attention to herinterests about the lugger landing. 

He hastened to the levee. The huge, writhing river, risen up above thetown, was full to the levee's top, and, as though the enemy's fleet wasthat much more than it could bear, was silently running over by ahundred rills into the streets of the stricken city. 

As far as the eye could reach, black smoke, white smoke, brown smoke, and red flames rolled and spread, and licked and leaped, from unnumberedpiles of cotton bales, and wooden wharves, and ships cut adrift, andsteam-boats that blazed like shavings, floating down the harbor as theyblazed. He stood for a moment to see a little revenue cutter, --a prettytopsail schooner, --lying at the foot of Canal street, sink before hiseyes into the turbid yellow depths of the river, scuttled. Then hehurried on. Huge mobs ran to and fro in the fire and smoke, howling, breaking, and stealing. Women and children hurried back and forth likeswarms of giant ants, with buckets and baskets, and dippers and bags, and bonnets, hats, petticoats, anything, --now empty, and now full ofrice and sugar and meal and corn and syrup, --and robbed each other, andcursed and fought, and slipped down in pools of molasses, and threw livepigs and coops of chickens into the river, and with one voiceless rushleft the broad levee a smoking, crackling desert, when some shellsexploded on a burning gunboat, and presently were back again like aflock of evil birds. 

It began to rain, but Richling sought no shelter. The men he was insearch of were not to be found. But the victorious ships, with bareblack arms stretched wide, boarding nettings up, and the dark muzzles oftheir guns bristling from their sides, came, silently as a nightmare, slowly around the bend at Slaughterhouse Point and moved up the middleof the harbor. At the French market he found himself, withoutforewarning, witness of a sudden skirmish between some Gascon andSicilian market-men, who had waved a welcome to the fleet, and someTexan soldiers who resented the treason. The report of a musket rangout, a second and third reëchoed it, a pistol cracked, and another, and another; there was a rush for cover; another shot, and another, resounded in the market-house, and presently in the street beyond. Then, in a moment, all was silence and emptiness, into which there venturedbut a single stooping, peeping Sicilian, glancing this way and that, with his finger on trigger, eager to kill, gliding from cover to cover, and presently gone again from view, leaving no human life visible nearerthan the swarming mob that Richling, by mounting a pile of ship'sballast, could see still on the steam-boat landing, pillaging in thedrenching rain, and the long fleet casting anchor before the town inline of battle. 

Late that afternoon Richling, still wet to the skin, amid pushing andyelling and the piping calls of distracted women and children, andscuffling and cramming in, got Kate Ristofalo, trunks, baskets, andbabes, safely off on the cars. And when, one week from that day, thesound of drums, that had been hushed for a while, fell upon his earagain, --no longer the jaunty rataplan of Dixie's drums, but the heavy, monotonous roar of the conqueror's at the head of his dark-bluecolumns, --Richling could not leave his bed. 

Dr. Sevier sat by him and bore the sound in silence. As it died away andceased, Richling said:--

"May I write to Mary?"

Then the Doctor had a hard task. 

"I wrote for her yesterday, " he said. "But, Richling, I--don't thinkshe'll get the letter. "

"Do you think she has already started?" asked the sick man, with gladeagerness. 

"Richling, I did the best I knew how"--

"Whatever you did was all right, Doctor. "

"I wrote to her months ago, by the hand of Ristofalo. He knows she gotthe letter. I'm afraid she's somewhere in the Confederacy, trying to getthrough. I meant it for the best, my dear boy. "

"It's all right, Doctor, " said the invalid; but the physician could seethe cruel fact slowly grind him. 

"Doctor, may I ask one favor?"

"One or a hundred, Richling. "

"I want you to let Madame Zénobie come and nurse me. "

"Why, Richling, can't I nurse you well enough?"

The Doctor was jealous. 

"Yes, " answered the sick man. "But I'll need a good deal of attention. She wants to do it. She was here yesterday, you knew. She wanted to askyou, but was afraid. "

His wish was granted. 

CHAPTER LVII. 

ALMOST IN SIGHT. 

In St. Tammany Parish, on the northern border of Lake Ponchartrain, about thirty miles from New Orleans, in a straight line across thewaters of the lake, stood in time of the war, and may stand yet, an oldhouse, of the Creole colonial fashion, all of cypress from sills toshingles, standing on brick pillars ten feet from the ground, a wideveranda in front, and a double flight of front steps running up to itsidewise and meeting in a balustraded landing at its edge. Scarcelyanything short of a steamer's roof or a light-house window could haveoffered a finer stand-point from which to sweep a glass round thesouthern semi-circle of water and sky than did this stair-landing; andhere, a long ship's-glass in her hands, and the accustomed look of careon her face, faintly frowning against the glare of noonday, stood MaryRichling. She still had on the pine-straw hat, and the skirt--stirringsoftly in a breeze that had to come around from the north side of thehouse before it reached her--was the brown and olive homespun. 

"No use, " said an old, fat, and sun-tanned man from his willow chair onthe veranda behind her. There was a slight palsied oscillation in hishead. He leaned forward somewhat on a staff, and as he spoke his entireshapeless and nearly helpless form quaked with the effort. But Mary, forall his advice, raised the glass and swung it slowly from east to west. 

The house was near the edge of a slightly rising ground, close to themargin of a bayou that glided around toward the left from the woods atits back, and ran, deep and silent, under the shadows of a few huge, wide-spreading, moss-hung live-oaks that stood along its hither shore, laving their roots in its waters, and throwing their vast green imagesupon its glassy surface. As the dark stream slipped away from these itflashed a little while in the bright open space of a marsh, and, justentering the shade of a spectral cypress wood, turned as if to avoid it, swung more than half about, and shone sky-blue, silver, and green as itswept out into the unbroken sunshine of the prairie. 

It was over this flowery savanna, broadening out on either hand, andspreading far away until its bright green margin joined, with theperfection of a mosaic, the distant blue of the lake, that Mary, dallying a moment with hope, passed her long glass. She spoke with itstill raised and her gaze bent through it:--

"There's a big alligator crossing the bayou down in the bend. "

"Yes, " said the aged man, moving his flat, carpet-slippered feet alaborious inch; "alligator. Alligator not goin' take you 'cross lake. Nouse lookin'. 'Ow Peter goin' come when win' dead ahead? Can't do it. "

Yet Mary lifted the glass a little higher, beyond the green, beyond thecrimpling wavelets of the nearer distance that seemed drawn by themagical lens almost into her hand, out to the fine, straight line thatcut the cool blue below from the boundless blue above. Round swung theglass, slowly, waveringly, in her unpractised hand, from the low cypressforests of Manchac on the west, to the skies that glittered over theunseen marshes of the Rigolets on the farthest east. 

"You see sail yondeh?" came the slow inquiry from behind. 

"No, " said Mary, letting the instrument down, and resting it on thebalustrade. 

"Humph! No! Dawn't I tell you is no use look?"

"He was to have got here three days ago, " said Mary, shutting the glassand gazing in anxious abstraction across the prairie. 

The Spanish Creole grunted. 

"When win' change, he goin' start. He dawn't start till win' change. Win' keep ligue dat, he dawn't start 't all. " He moved his orange-woodstaff an inch, to suit the previous movement of his feet, and Mary cameand laid the glass on its brackets in the veranda, near the open door ofa hall that ran through the dwelling to another veranda in the rear. 

In the middle of the hall a small woman, as dry as the peppers that hungin strings on the wall behind her, sat in a rush-bottomed rocking-chairplaiting a palmetto hat, and with her elbow swinging a tattered manillahammock, in whose bulging middle lay Alice, taking her compulsorynoonday nap. Mary came, expressed her thanks in sprightly whispers, lifted the child out, and carried her to a room. How had Mary got here?

The morning after that on which she had missed the cars at Canton shehad taken a south-bound train for Camp Moore, the camp of the forcesthat had evacuated New Orleans, situated near the railway station ofTangipahoa, some eighty miles north of the captured city. Thence, aftera day or two of unavoidable delay, and of careful effort to know thewisest step, she had taken stage, --a crazy ambulance, --with some others, two women, three children, and an old man, and for two days hadtravelled through a beautiful country of red and yellow clays andsands below and murmuring pines above, --vast colonnades of towering, branchless brown columns holding high their green, translucent roof, andopening up their wide, bright, sunshot vistas of gentle, grassy hillsthat undulated far away under the balsamic forest, and melted at lengthinto luminous green unity and deer-haunted solitudes. Now she went downinto richer bottom-lands, where the cotton and corn were growing talland pretty to look upon, like suddenly grown girls, and the sun wasbeginning to shine hot. Now she passed over rustic bridges, under postedwarnings to drive slow or pay a fine, or through sandy fords acrosspurling streams, hearing the monotone of some unseen mill-dam, orscaring the tall gray crane from his fishing, or the otter from hispranks. Again she went up into leagues of clear pine forest, with stemsas straight as lances; meeting now a farmer, and now a school-girl ortwo, and once a squad of scouts, ill-mounted, worse clad, and yet moresorrily armed; bivouacking with the jolly, tattered fellows, Mary andone of the other women singing for them, and the "boys" singing forMary, and each applauding each about the pine-knot fire, and the womenand children by and by lying down to slumber, in soldier fashion, withtheir feet to the brands, under the pines and the stars, while thegray-coats stood guard in the wavering fire-light; but Mary lying broadawake staring at the great constellation of the Scorpion, and thinkingnow of him she sought, and now remorsefully of that other scout, thatpoor boy whom the spy had shot far away yonder to the north andeastward. Now she rose and journeyed again. Rare hours were those forAlice. They came at length into a low, barren land, of dwarfed andscrawny pines, with here and there a marshy flat; thence through anarrow strip of hickories, oaks, cypresses, and dwarf palmetto, and soon into beds of white sand and oyster-shells, and then into one of thevillages on the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain. 

Her many little adventures by the way, the sayings and doings andseeings of Alice, and all those little adroitnesses by which Mary fromtime to time succeeded in avoiding or turning aside the suspicionsthat hovered about her, and the hundred times in which Alice was herstrongest and most perfect protection, we cannot pause to tell. But wegive a few lines to one matter. 

Mary had not yet descended from the ambulance at her journey's end;she and Alice only were in it; its tired mules were dragging it slowlythrough the sandy street of the village, and the driver was praisingthe milk, eggs, chickens, and genteel seclusion of Mrs. ----'s"hotel, " at that end of the village toward which he was driving, when aman on horseback met them, and, in passing, raised his hat to Mary. Theact was only the usual courtesy of the highway; yet Mary was startled, disconcerted, and had to ask the unobservant, loquacious driver torepeat what he had said. Two days afterward Mary was walking at thetwilight hour, in a narrow, sandy road, that ran from the village outinto the country to the eastward. Alice walked beside her, plying herwith questions. At a turn of the path, without warning, she confrontedthis horseman again. He reined up and lifted his hat. An elated lookbrightened his face. 

"It's all fixed, " he said. But Mary looked distressed, even alarmed. 

"You shouldn't have done this, " she replied. 

The man waved his hand downward repressively, but with a countenancefull of humor. 

"Hold on. It's _still_ my deal. This is the last time, and then I'mdone. Make a spoon or spoil a horn, you know. When you commence to do athing, do it. Them's the words that's inscribed on my banner, as thefelleh says; only I, Sam, aint got much banner. And if I sort o' useabout this low country a little while for my health, as it were, andnibble around sort o' _pro bono p[=u]blico_ takin' notes, why you ainta-carin', is you? For wherefore shouldest thou?" He put on a yet moreludicrous look, and spread his hand off at one side, working hisoutstretched fingers. 

"Yes, " responded Mary, with severe gravity; "I must care. You did finishat Holly Springs. I was to find the rest of the way as best I could. That was the understanding. Go away!" She made a commanding gesture, though she wore a pleading look. He looked grave; but his habitualgrimace stole through his gravity and invited her smile. But sheremained fixed. He gathered the rein and straightened up in the saddle. 

"Yes, " she insisted, answering his inquiring attitude; "go! I shall begrateful to you as long as I live. It wasn't because I mistrusted you thatI refused your aid at Camp Moore or at----that other place on this side. Idon't mistrust you. But don't you see--you must see--it's your duty tosee--that this staying and--and--foll--following--is--is--wrong. " Shestood, holding her skirt in one hand, and Alice's hand in the other, notupright, but in a slightly shrinking attitude, and as she added once more, "Go! I implore you--go!" her eyes filled. 

"I will; I'll go, " said the man, with a soft chuckle intended forself-abasement. "I go, thou goest, he goes. 'I'll skedaddle, ' as thefelleh says. And yit it do seem to me sorter like, --if my moral sense isworthy of any consideration, which is doubtful, may be, --seems to melike it's sort o' jumpin' the bounty for you to go and go back on anarrangement that's been all fixed up nice and tight, and when it's on'yjess to sort o' 'jump into the wagon' that's to call for you to-morrow, sun-up, drove by a nigger boy, and ride a few mile' to a house on thebayou, and wait there till a man comes with a nice little schooner, andtake you on bode and sail off, and 'good-by, Sally, ' and me never insight from fust to last, 'and no questions axed. '"

"I don't reject the arrangement, " replied Mary, with tearfulpleasantness. "If you'll do as I say, I'll do as you say; and that willbe final proof to you that I believe you're"--she fell back a step, laughingly--"'the clean sand!'" She thought the man would haveperpetrated some small antic; but he did not. He did not even smile, butlifted the rein a little till the horse stepped forward, and, puttingout his hand, said:--

"Good-by. You don't need no directions. Jess tell the lady where you'boardin' that you've sort o' consented to spend a day or two with oldAdrien Sanchez, and get into the wagon when it comes for you. " He let goher hand. "Good-by, Alice. " The child looked up in silence and pressedherself against her mother. "Good-by, " said he once more. 

"Good-by, " replied Mary. 

His eyes lingered as she dropped her own. 

"Come, Alice, " she said, resisting the little one's effort to stoop andpick a wild-pea blossom, and the mother and child started slowly backthe way they had come. The spy turned his horse, and moved still moreslowly in the opposite direction. But before he had gone many rods heturned the animal's head again, rode as slowly back, and, beside thespot where Mary had stood, got down, and from the small imprint of hershoe in the damp sand took the pea-blossom, which, in turning todepart, she had unawares trodden under foot. He looked at the small, crushed thing for a moment, and then thrust it into his bosom; but in amoment, as if by a counter impulse, drew it forth again, let it flutterto the ground, following it with his eyes, shook his head with an amusedair, half of defiance and half of discomfiture, turned, drew himselfinto the saddle, and with one hand laid upon another on the saddle-bowand his eyes resting on them in meditation, passed finally out of sight. 

 * * *

Here, then, in this lone old Creole cottage, Mary was tarrying, prisonerof hope, coming out all hours of the day, and scanning the wide view, first, only her hand to shade her brow, and then with the oldship's-glass, Alice often standing by and looking up at thisextraordinary toy with unspoken wonder. All that Mary could tell her ofthings seeable through it could never persuade the child to risk her owneye at either end of it. So Mary would look again and see, out in theprairie, in the morning, the reed birds, the marsh hen, the blackbirds, the sparrows, the starlings, with their red and yellow epaulets, risingand fluttering and sinking again among the lilies and mallows, and thewhite crane, paler than a ghost, wading in the grassy shallows. She sawthe ravening garfish leap from the bayou, and the mullet in shininghundreds spatter away to left and right; and the fisherman and theshrimp-catcher in their canoes come gliding up the glassy stream, ridingdown the water-lilies, that rose again behind and shook the drops fromtheir crowns, like water-sprites. Here and there, farther out, she sawthe little cat-boats of the neighboring village crawling along the edgeof the lake, taking their timid morning cruises. And far away she sawthe titanic clouds; but on the horizon, no sail. 

In the evening she would see mocking-birds coming out of the savanna andflying into the live-oaks. A summer duck might dart from the cypresses, speed across the wide green level, and become a swerving, vanishingspeck on the sky. The heron might come round the bayou's bend, andsuddenly take fright and fly back again. The rattling kingfisher mightcome up the stream, and the blue crane sail silently through the purplehaze that hung between the swamp and the bayou. She would see the gulls, gray and white, on the margin of the lake, the sun setting beyond itswestern end, and the sky and water turning all beautiful tints; andevery now and then, low down along the cool, wrinkling waters, passedacross the round eye of the glass the broad, downward-curved wing of thepelican. But when she ventured to lift the glass to the horizon, sheswept it from east to west in vain. No sail. 

"Dawn't I tell you no use look? Peter dawn't comin' in day-time, nohow. "

But on the fifth morning Mary had hardly made her appearance on theveranda, and had not ventured near the spy-glass yet, when the old mansaid:--

"She rain back in swamp las' night; can smell. "

"How do you feel this morning?" asked Mary, facing around from her firstglance across the waters. He did not heed. 

"See dat win'?" he asked, lifting one hand a little from the top of hisstaff. 

"Yes, " responded Mary, eagerly; "why, it's--hasn't it--changed?"

"Yes, change' las' night 'fo' went to bed. "

The old man's manner betrayed his contempt for one who could beinterested in such a change, and yet not know when it took place. 

"Why, then, " began Mary, and started as if to take down the glass. 

"What you doin'?" demanded its owner. "Better let glass 'lone; fool' widhim enough. "

Mary flushed, and, with a smile of resentful apology, was about toreply, when he continued:--

"What you want glass for? Dare Peter' schooner--right dare in bayou. What want glass for? Can't see schooner hundred yard' off 'dout glass?"And he turned away his poor wabbling head in disgust. 

Mary looked an instant at two bare, rakish, yellow poles showing outagainst the clump of cypresses, and the trim little white hull andapple-green deck from which they sprang, then clasped her hands and raninto the house. 

CHAPTER LVIII. 

A GOLDEN SUNSET. 

Dr. Sevier came to Richling's room one afternoon, and handed him asealed letter. The postmark was blurred, but it was easy still to readthe abbreviation of the State's name, --Kentucky. It had come by way ofNew York and the sea. The sick man reached out for it with avidity fromthe large bed in which he sat bolstered up. He tore it open withunsteady fingers, and sought the signature. 

"It's from a lawyer. "

"An old acquaintance?" asked the doctor. 

"Yes, " responded Richling, his eyes glancing eagerly along the lines. "Mary's in the Confederate lines!--Mary and Alice!" The hand that heldthe letter dropped to his lap. "It doesn't say a word about how she gotthrough!"

"But _where_ did she get through?" asked the physician. "Whereabouts isshe now?"

"She got through away up to the eastward of Corinth, Mississippi. Doctor, she may be within fifty miles of us this very minute! Do youthink they'll give her a pass to come in?"

"They may, Richling; I hope they will. "

"I think I'd get well if she'd come, " said the invalid. But his friendmade no answer. 

A day or two afterward--it was drawing to the close of a beautifulafternoon in early May--Dr. Sevier came into the room and stood at awindow looking out. Madame Zénobie sat by the bedside softly fanning thepatient. Richling, with his eyes, motioned her to retire. She smiled andnodded approvingly, as if to say that that was just what she was aboutto propose, and went out, shutting the door with just sound enough toannounce her departure to Dr. Sevier. 

He came from the window to the bedside and sat down. The sick man lookedat him, with a feeble eye, and said, in little more than a whisper:--

"Mary and Alice"--

"Yes, " said the Doctor. 

"If they don't come to-night they'll be too late. "

"God knows, my dear boy!"

"Doctor"--

"What, Richling?"

"Did you ever try to guess"--

"Guess what, Richling?"

"_His_ use of my life. "

"Why, yes, my poor boy, I have tried. But I only make out its use tome. "

The sick man's eye brightened. 

"Has it been?"

The Doctor nodded. He reached out and took the wasted hand in his. Ittried to answer his pressure. The invalid spoke. 

"I'm glad you told me that before--before it was too late. "

"Are you, my dear boy? Shall I tell you more?"

"Yes, " the sick man huskily replied; "oh, yes. "

"Well, Richling, --you know we're great cowards about saying such things;it's a part of our poor human weakness and distrust of each other, andthe emptiness of words, --but--lately--only just here, very lately, I'velearned to call the meekest, lovingest One that ever trod our earth, Master; and it's been your life, my dear fellow, that has taught me. " Hepressed the sick man's hand slowly and tremulously, then let it go, butcontinued to caress it in a tender, absent way, looking on the floor ashe spoke on. 

"Richling, Nature herself appoints some men to poverty and some toriches. God throws the poor upon our charge--in mercy to _us_. Couldn'the take care of them without us if he wished? Are they not his? It'seasy for the poor to feel, when they are helped by us, that the rich area godsend to them; but they don't see, and many of their helpers don'tsee, that the poor are a godsend to the rich. They're set over againsteach other to keep pity and mercy and charity in the human heart. Ifevery one were entirely able to take care of himself we'd turn tostone. " The speaker ceased. 

"Go on, " whispered the listener. 

"That will never be, " continued the Doctor. "God Almighty will never letus find a way to quite abolish poverty. Riches don't always bless theman they come to, but they bless the world. And so with poverty; andit's no contemptible commission, Richling, to be appointed by God tobear that blessing to mankind which keeps its brotherhood universal. See, now, "--he looked up with a gentle smile, --"from what a distance hebrought our two hearts together. Why, Richling, the man that can makethe rich and poor love each other will make the world happier than ithas ever been since man fell!"

"Go on, " whispered Richling. 

"No, " said the Doctor. 

"Well, now, Doctor--_I_ want to say--something. " The invalid spoke witha weak and broken utterance, with many breaks and starts that we may setaside. 

"For a long time, " he said, beginning as if half in soliloquy, "Icouldn't believe I was coming to this early end, simply because Ididn't see why I should. I know that was foolish. I thought myhardships"-- He ceased entirely, and, when his strength wouldallow, resumed:--

"I thought they were sent in order that when I should come to fortune Imight take part in correcting some evils that are strangely overlooked. "

The Doctor nodded, and, after a moment of rest, Richling said again:--

"But now I see--that is not my work. May be it is Mary's. May be it's mylittle girl's. "

"Or mine, " murmured the Doctor. 

"Yes, Doctor, I've been lying here to-day thinking of something I neverthought of before, though I dare say you have, often. There could be noart of healing till the earth was full of graves. It is by shipwreckthat we learn to build ships. All our safety--all our betterment--issecured by our knowledge of others' disasters that need not havehappened had they only _known_. Will you--finish my mission?" The sickman's hand softly grasped the hand that lay upon it. And the Doctorresponded:--

"How shall I do that, Richling?"

"Tell my story. "

"But I don't know it all, Richling. "

"I'll tell you all that's behind. You know I'm a native of Kentucky. My name is not Richling. I belong to one of the proudest, mostdistinguished families in that State or in all the land. Until I marriedI never knew an ungratified wish. I think my bringing-up, not to bewicked, was as bad as could be. It was based upon the idea that I wasalways to be master, and never servant. I was to go through life withsoft hands. I was educated to know, but not to do. When I left schoolmy parents let me travel. They would have let me do anything exceptwork. In the West--in Milwaukee--I met Mary. It was by mere chance. Shewas poor, but cultivated and refined; trained--you know--for knowing, not doing. I loved her and courted her, and she encouraged my suit, under the idea, you know, again, "--he smiled faintly and sadly, --"thatit was nobody's business but ours. I offered my hand and was accepted. But, when I came to announce our engagement to my family, they warned methat if I married her they would disinherit and disown me. "

"What was their reason, Richling?"

"Nothing. "

"But, Richling, they had a reason of some sort. "

"Nothing in the world but that Mary was a Northern girl. Simplesectional prejudice. I didn't tell Mary. I didn't think they would doit; but I knew Mary would refuse to put me to the risk. We married, andthey carried out their threat. "

The Doctor uttered a low exclamation, and both were silent. 

"Doctor, " began the sick man once more. 

"Yes, Richling. "

"I suppose you never looked into the case of a man who needed help, butyou were sure to find that some one thing was the key to all histroubles; did you?"

The Doctor was silent again. 

"I'll give you the key to mine, Doctor: I took up the gage thrown downby my family as though it were thrown down by society at large. I said Iwould match pride with pride. I said I would go among strangers, take anew name, and make it as honorable as the old. I saw Mary didn't thinkit wise; but she believed whatever I did was best, and"--he smiled andwhispered--"I thought so too. I suppose my troubles have more than onekey; but that's the outside one. Let me rest a little. 

"Doctor, I die nameless. I had a name, a good name, and only too proud aone. It's mine still. I've never tarnished it--not even in prison. Iwill not stain it now by disclosing it. I carry it with me to God'sthrone. "

The whisperer ceased, exhausted. The Doctor rested an elbow on a kneeand laid his face in his hand. Presently Richling moved, and he raised alook of sad inquiry. 

"Bury me here in New Orleans, Doctor, will you?"

"Why, Richling?"

"Well--this has been--my--battle-ground. I'd like to be buried on thefield, --like the other soldiers. Not that I've been a good one; but--Iwant to lie where you can point to me as you tell my story. If it couldbe so, I should like to lie in sight--of that old prison. "

The Doctor brushed his eyes with his handkerchief and wiped his brow. 

"Doctor, " said the invalid again, "will you read me just four verses inthe Bible?"

"Why, yes, my boy, as many as you wish to hear. "

"No, only four. " His free hand moved for the book that lay on the bed, and presently the Doctor read:--

 "'My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations;

 "'Knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience. 

 "'But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing. 

 "'If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him. '"

"There, " whispered the sick man, and rested with a peaceful look in allhis face. "It--doesn't mean wisdom in general, Doctor, --such as Solomonasked for. "

"Doesn't it?" said the other, meekly. 

"No. It means the wisdom necessary to let--patience--have herperf-- I was a long time--getting any where near that. 

"Doctor--do you remember how fond--Mary was of singing--all kindsof--little old songs?"

"Of course I do, my dear boy. "

"Did you ever sing--Doctor?"

"O my dear fellow! I never did really sing, and I haven't uttered a notesince--for twenty years. "

"Can't you sing--ever so softly--just a verse--of--'I'm a Pilgrim'?"

"I--I--it's impossible, Richling, old fellow. I don't know either thewords or the tune. I never sing. " He smiled at himself through histears. 

"Well, all right, " whispered Richling. He lay with closed eyes for amoment, and then, as he opened them, breathed faintly through his partedlips the words, spoken, not sung, while his hand feebly beat theimagined cadence:--

 "'The sun shines bright in my old Kentucky home; 'Tis summer, the darkies are gay; The corn-tops are ripe, and the meadows are in bloom, And the birds make music all the day. '"

The Doctor hid his face in his hands, and all was still. 

By and by there came a whisper again. The Doctor raised his head. 

"Doctor, there's one thing"--

"Yes, I know there is, Richling. "

"Doctor, --I've been a poor stick of a husband. "

"I never knew a good one, Richling. "

"Doctor, you'll be a friend to Mary?"

The Doctor nodded; his eyes were full. 

The sick man drew from his breast a small ambrotype, pressed it to hislips, and poised it in his trembling fingers. It was the likeness of thelittle Alice. He turned his eyes to his friend. 

"I didn't need Mary's. But this is all I've ever seen of my little girl. To-morrow, at daybreak, --it will be just at daybreak, --when you see thatI've passed, I want you to lay this here on my breast. Then fold myhands upon it"--

His speech was arrested. He seemed to hearken an instant. 

"Doctor, " he said, with excitement in his eye and sudden strength ofvoice, "what is that I hear?"

"I don't know, " replied his friend; "one of the servants probably downin the hall. " But he, too, seemed to have been startled. He lifted hishead. There was a sound of some one coming up the stairs in haste. 

"Doctor. " The Doctor was rising from his chair. 

"Lie still, Richling. "

But the sick man suddenly sat erect. 

"Doctor--it's--O Doctor, I"--

The door flew open; there was a low outcry from the threshold, a moan ofjoy from the sick man, a throwing wide of arms, and a rush to thebedside, and John and Mary Richling--and the little Alice, too--

Come, Doctor Sevier; come out and close the door. 

 * * *

"Strangest thing on earth!" I once heard a physician say, --"themysterious power that the dying so often have to fix the very hour oftheir approaching end!" It was so in John Richling's case. It was as hesaid. Had Mary and Alice not come when they did, they would have beentoo late. He "tarried but a night;" and at the dawn Mary uttered thebitter cry of the widow, and Doctor Sevier closed the eyes of the onewho had committed no fault, --against this world, at least, --save that hehad been by nature a pilgrim and a stranger in it. 

CHAPTER LIX. 

AFTERGLOW. 

Mary, with Alice holding one hand, flowers in the other, was walking oneday down the central avenue of the old Girod Cemetery, breaking thesilence of the place only by the soft grinding of her footsteps on theshell-walk, and was just entering a transverse alley, when she stopped. 

Just at hand a large, broad woman, very plainly dressed, was drawingback a single step from the front of a tomb, and dropping her hands froma coarse vase of flowers that she had that moment placed on the narrowstone shelf under the tablet. The blossoms touched, without hiding, thenewly cut name. She had hung a little plaster crucifix against it fromabove. She must have heard the footfall so near by, and marked itsstoppage; but, with the oblivion common to the practisers of herreligion, she took no outward notice. She crossed herself, sank upon herknees, and with her eyes upon the shrine she had made remained thus. Thetears ran down Mary's face. It was Madame Zénobie. They went and livedtogether. 

The name of the street where their house stood has slipped me, as hasthat of the clean, unfrequented, round-stoned way up which one lookedfrom the small cottage's veranda, and which, running down to their oldarched gate, came there to an end, as if that were a pretty place tostop at in the shade until evening. Grass grows now, as it did then, between the round stones; and in the towering sycamores of the reddenedbrick sidewalk the long, quavering note of the cicada parts the widesummer noonday silence. The stillness yields to little else, save nowand then the tinkle of a mule-bell, where in the distance the softlyrumbling street-car invites one to the centre of the town's activities, or the voice of some fowl that, having laid an egg, is asserting herright to the credit of it. Some forty feet back, within a mossy brickwall that stands waist-high, surmounted by a white, open fence, thegreen wooden balls on top of whose posts are full eight feet above thesidewalk, the cottage stands high up among a sweet confusion of palepurple and pink crape myrtles, oleanders white and red, and thebristling leaves and plumes of white bells of the Spanish bayonet, all in the shade of lofty magnolias, and one great pecan. 

"And this is little Alice, " said Doctor Sevier with gentle gravity, as, on his first visit to the place, he shook hands with Mary at the top ofthe veranda stairs, and laid his fingers upon the child's forehead. Hesmiled into her uplifted face as her eyes examined his, and stroked thelittle crown as she turned her glance silently upon her mother, as if toinquire if this were a trustworthy person. Mary led the way to chairsat the veranda's end where the south breeze fanned them, and Aliceretreated to her mother's side until her silent question should besettled. 

It was still May. They spoke the praises of the day whose sun wasjust setting. And Mary commended the house, the convenience of itsconstruction, its salubrity; and also, and especially, the excellenceand goodness of Madame Zénobie. What a complete and satisfactoryarrangement! Was it not? Did not the Doctor think so?

But the Doctor's affirmative responses were unfrequent, and quitewithout enthusiasm; and Mary's face, wearing more cheer than was feltwithin, betrayed, moreover, the feeling of one who, having done the bestshe knew, falls short of commendation. 

She was once more in deep black. Her face was pale, and some of itslines had yielded up a part of their excellence. The outward curves ofthe rose had given place to the inward curves of the lily--nay, hardlyall that; for as she had never had the full red queenliness of the one, neither had she now the severe sanctitude of the other; that soft glowof inquiry, at once so blithe and so self-contained, so modest and socourageous, humble, yet free, still played about her saddened eyes andin her tones. Through the glistening sadness of those eyes smiledresignation; and although the Doctor plainly read care about them andabout the mouth, it was a care that was forbearing to feed upon itself, or to take its seat on her brow. The brow was the old one; that is, theyoung. The joy of life's morning was gone from it forever; but achastened hope was there, and one could see peace hovering just aboveit, as though it might in time alight. Such were the things that dividedher austere friend's attention as she sat before him, seeking, withtimid smiles and interrogative argument, for this new beginning of lifesome heartiness of approval from him. 

"Doctor, " she plucked up courage to say at last, with a geniality thatscantily hid the inner distress, "you don't seem pleased. "

"I can't say I am, Mary. You've provided for things in sight; but I seeno provision for unseen contingencies. They're sure to come, you know. How are you going to meet them?"

"Well, " said Mary, with slow, smiling caution, "there's my two thousanddollars that you've put at interest for me. "

"Why, no; you've already counted the interest on that as part of yournecessary income. "

"Doctor, 'the Lord will provide, ' will he not?"

"No. "

"Why, Doctor!"--

"No, Mary; you've got to provide. He's not going to set aside the lawsof nature to cover our improvidence. That would be to break faith withall creation for the sake of one or two creatures. "

"No; but still, Doctor, without breaking the laws of nature, he willprovide. It's in his word. "

"Yes, and it ought to be in his word--not in ours. It's for him to sayto us, not for us to say to him. But there's another thing, Mary. "

"Yes, sir. "

"It's this. But first I'll say plainly you've passed through the firesof poverty, and they haven't hurt you. You have one of thoseimperishable natures that fire can't stain or warp. "

"O Doctor, how absurd!" said Mary, with bright genuineness, and a tearin either eye. She drew Alice closer. 

"Well, then, I do see two ill effects, " replied the Doctor. "In thefirst place, as I've just tried to show you, you have caught a little ofthe _recklessness_ of the poor. "

"I was born with it, " exclaimed Mary, with amusement. 

"Maybe so, " replied her friend; "at any rate you show it. " He wassilent. 

"But what is the other?" asked Mary. 

"Why, as to that, I may mistake; but--you seem inclined to settle downand be satisfied with poverty. "

"Having food and raiment, " said Mary, smiling with some archness, "to betherewith content. "

"Yes, but"--the physician shook his head--"that doesn't mean to besatisfied. It's one thing to be content with God's providence, and it'sanother to be satisfied with poverty. There's not one in a thousand thatI'd venture to say it to. He wouldn't understand the fine difference. But you will. I'm sure you do. "

"Yes, I do. "

"I know you do. You know poverty has its temptations, and warpinginfluences, and debasing effects, just as truly as riches have. See howit narrows our usefulness. Not always, it is true. Sometimes our bestusefulness keeps us poor. That's poverty with a good excuse. But that'snot poverty satisfying, Mary"--

"No, of course not, " said Mary, exhibiting a degree of distress that theDoctor somehow overlooked. 

"It's merely, " said he, half-extending his open palm, --"it's merelypoverty accepted, as a good soldier accepts the dust and smut that are anecessary part of the battle. Now, here's this little girl. "--As hisopen white hand pointed toward Alice she shrank back; but the Doctorseemed blind this afternoon and drove on. --"In a few years--it will notseem like any time at all--she'll be half grown up; she'll have wantsthat ought to be supplied. "

"Oh! don't, " exclaimed Mary, and burst into a flood of tears; and theDoctor, while she hid them from her child, sat silently loathing his ownstupidity. 

"Please, don't mind it, " said Mary, stanching the flow. "You were not sobadly mistaken. I wasn't satisfied, but I was about to surrender. " Shesmiled at herself and her warlike figure of speech. 

He looked away, passed his hand across his forehead and must havemuttered audibly his self-reproach: for Mary looked up again with afaint gleam of the old radiance in her face, saying:--

"I'm glad you didn't let me do it. I'll not do it. I'll take up thestruggle again. Indeed, I had already thought of one thing I could do, but I--I--in fact, Doctor, I thought you might not like it. "

"What was it?"

"It was teaching in the public schools. They're in the hands of themilitary government, I am told. Are they not?"

"Yes. "

"Still, " said Mary, speaking rapidly, "I say I'll keep up the"--

But the Doctor lifted his hand. 

"No, no. There's to be no more struggle. "

"No?" Mary tried to look pleasantly incredulous. 

"No; and you're not going to be put upon anybody's bounty, either. No. What I was going to say about this little girl here was this, --her nameis Alice, is it?"

"Yes. "

The mother dropped an arm around the child, and both she and Alicelooked timidly at the questioner. 

"Well, by that name, Mary, I claim the care of her. "

The color mounted to Mary's brows, but the Doctor raised a finger. 

"I mean, of course, Mary, only in so far as such care can go withoutmolesting your perfect motherhood, and all its offices and pleasures. "

Her eyes filled again, and her lips parted; but the Doctor was not goingto let her reply. 

"Don't try to debate it, Mary. You must see you have no case. Nobody'sgoing to take her from you, nor do any other of the foolish things, Ihope, that are so often done in such cases. But you've called herAlice, and Alice she must be. I don't propose to take care of her foryou"--

"Oh, no; of course not, " interjected Mary. 

"No, " said the Doctor; "you'll take care of her for me. I intended itfrom the first. And that brings up another point. You mustn't teachschool. No. I have something else--something better--to suggest. Mary, you and John have been a kind of blessing to me"--

She would have interrupted with expressions of astonishment and dissent, but he would not hear them. 

"I think I ought to know best about that, " he said. "Your husband taughtme a great deal, I think. I want to put some of it into practice. We hada--an understanding, you might say--one day toward the--end--that Ishould do for him some of the things he had so longed and hoped todo--for the poor and the unfortunate. "

"I know, " said Mary, the tears dropping down her face. 

"He told you?" asked the Doctor. 

She nodded. 

"Well, " resumed the Doctor, "those may not be his words precisely, butit's what they meant to me. And I said I'd do it. But I shall needassistance. I'm a medical practitioner. I attend the sick. But I see agreat deal of other sorts of sufferers; and I can't stop for them. "

"Certainly not, " said Mary, softly. 

"No, " said he; "I can't make the inquiries and investigations about themand study them, and all that kind of thing, as one should if one's helpis going to be help. I can't turn aside for all that. A man must haveone direction, you know. But you could look after those things"--

"I?"

"Certainly. You could do it just as I--just as John--would wish to seeit done. You're just the kind of person to do it right. "

"O Doctor, don't say so! I'm not fitted for it at all. "

"I'm sure you are, Mary. You're fitted by character and outwarddisposition, and by experience. You're full of cheer"--

She tearfully shook her head. But he insisted. 

"You will be--for _his_ sake, as you once said to me. Don't youremember?"

She remembered. She recalled all he wished her to: the prayer she hadmade that, whenever death should part her husband and her, he might notbe the one left behind. Yes, she remembered; and the Doctor spokeagain:--

"Now, I invite you to make this your principal business. I'll pay youfor it, regularly and well, what I think it's worth; and it's worth notrifle. There's not one in a thousand that I'd trust to do it, womanor man; but I know you will do it all, and do it well, without anynonsense. And if you want to look at it so, Mary, you can just considerthat it's John doing it, all the time; for, in fact, that's just what itis. It beats sewing, Mary, or teaching school, or making preserves, Ithink. "

"Yes, " said Mary, looking down on Alice, and stroking her head. 

"You can stay right here where you are, with Madame Zénobie, as you hadplanned; but you'll give yourself to this better work. I'll give you a_carte blanche_. Only one mistake I charge you not to make; don't go andcome from day to day on the assumption that only the poor are poor, andneed counsel and attention. "

"I know that would be a mistake, " said Mary. 

"But I mean more than that, " continued the Doctor. "You must keep ahold on the rich and comfortable and happy. You want to be a mediumbetween the two, identified with both as completely as possible. It's ahard task, Mary. It will take all your cunning. "

"And more, too, " replied she, half-musing. 

"You know, " said the Doctor, "I'm not to appear in the matter, ofcourse; I'm not to be mentioned: that must be one of the conditions. "

Mary smiled at him through her welling eyes. 

"I'm not fit to do it, " she said, folding the wet spots of herhandkerchief under. "But still, I'd rather not refuse. If I might tryit, I'd like to do so. If I could do it well, it would be a finermonument--to _him_"--

"Than brass or marble, " said Dr. Sevier. "Yes, more to his liking. "

"Well, " said Mary again, "if you think I can do it I'll try it. "

"Very well. There's one place you can go to, to begin with, to-morrowmorning, if you choose. I'll give you the number. It's just across herein Casa Calvo street. "

"Narcisse's aunt?" asked Mary, with a soft gleam of amusement. 

"Yes. Have you been there already?"

She had; but she only said:--

"There's one thing that I'm afraid will go against me, Doctor, almosteverywhere. " She lifted a timid look. 

The Doctor looked at her inquiringly, and in his private thought saidthat it was certainly not her face or voice. 

"Ah!" he said, as he suddenly recollected. "Yes; I had forgotten. Youmean your being a Union woman. "

"Yes. It seems to me they'll be sure to find it out. Don't you think itwill interfere?"

The Doctor mused. 

"I forgot that, " he repeated and mused again. "You can't blame us, Mary;we're at white heat"--

"Indeed I don't!" said Mary, with eager earnestness. 

He reflected yet again. 

"But--I don't know, either. It may be not as great a drawback as youthink. Here's Madame Zénobie, for instance"--

Madame Zénobie was just coming up the front steps from the garden, pulling herself up upon the veranda wearily by the balustrade. She cameforward, and, with graceful acknowledgment, accepted the physician'soutstretched hand and courtesied. 

"Here's Madame Zénobie, I say; you seem to get along with her. "

Mary smiled again, looked up at the standing quadroon, and replied in alow voice:--

"Madame Zénobie is for the Union herself. "

"Ah! no-o-o!" exclaimed the good woman, with an alarmed face. She liftedher shoulders and extended what Narcisse would have called the han' ofrep-u-diation; then turned away her face, lifted up her underlip withdisrelish, and asked the surrounding atmosphere, --"What I got to do widUnion? Nuttin' do wid Union--nuttin' do wid Confédéracie!" She movedaway, addressing the garden and the house by turns. "Ah! no!" She wentin by the front door, talking Creole French, until she was beyondhearing. 

Dr. Sevier reached out toward the child at Mary's knee. Here was one whowas neither for nor against, nor yet a fear-constrained neutral. Marypushed her persuasively toward the Doctor, and Alice let herself belifted to his lap. 

"I used to be for it myself, " he said, little dreaming he would one daybe for it again. As the child sank back into his arm, he noticed aminiature of her father hanging from her neck. He took it into hisfingers, and all were silent while he looked long upon the face. 

By and by he asked Mary for an account of her wanderings. She gave it. Many of the experiences, that had been hard and dangerous enough whenshe was passing through them, were full of drollery when they came to betold, and there was much quiet amusement over them. The sunlight fadedout, the cicadas hushed their long-drawn, ear-splitting strains, and themoon had begun to shine in the shadowy garden when Dr. Sevier at lengthlet Alice down and rose to take his lonely homeward way, leaving Mary toAlice's prattle, and, when that was hushed in slumber, to gentle tearsand whispered thanksgivings above the little head. 

CHAPTER LX. 

"YET SHALL HE LIVE. "

We need not follow Mary through her ministrations. Her office was nosinecure. It took not only much labor, but, as the Doctor had expected, it took all her cunning. True, nature and experience had equipped herfor such work; but for all that there was an art to be learned, and timeand again there were cases of mental and moral decrepitude or deformitythat baffled all her skill until her skill grew up to them, which insome cases it never did. The greatest tax of all was to seem, and to be, unprofessional; to avoid regarding her work in quantity, and to besimply, merely, in every case, a personal friend; not to become known asa benevolent itinerary, but only a kind and thoughtful neighbor. Blessedword! not benefactor--neighbor!

She had no schemes for helping the unfortunate by multitude. Possibly onthat account her usefulness was less than it might have been. But I amnot sure; for they say her actual words and deeds were but the seed ofultimate harvests; and that others, moreover, seeing her light shine sobrightly along this seemingly narrow path, and moved to imitate her, took that other and broader way, and so both fields were reaped. 

But, I say, we need not follow her steps. They would lead deviouslythrough ill-smelling military hospitals, and into buildings that hadonce been the counting-rooms of Carondelet-street cotton merchants, butwere now become the prisons of soldiers in gray. One of these places, restored after the war as a cotton factor's counting-room again, had, until a few years ago, a queer, clumsy patch in the plastering of onewall, near the base-board. Some one had made a rough inscription on itwith a cotton sampler's marking-brush. It commemorates an incident. Maryby some means became aware beforehand that this incident was going tooccur; and one of the most trying struggles of conscience she ever hadin her life was that in which she debated with herself one whole nightwhether she ought to give her knowledge to others or keep it to herself. She kept it. In fact, she said nothing until the war was all over anddone, and she never was quite sure whether her silence was right orwrong. And when she asked Dr. Sevier if he thought she had done wrong, he asked:--

"You knew it was going to take place, and kept silence?"

"Yes, " said Mary. 

"And you want to know whether you did right?"

"Yes. I'd like to know what you think. "

He sat very straight, and said not a word, nor changed a line of hisface. She got no answer at all. 

The inscription was as follows; I used to see it every work-day of theweek for years--it may be there yet--190 Common street, first flight, back office:

 [Illustration: Oct 14 1864 17 Confederate Prisoners escaped Through this hole]

But we move too fast. Let us go back into the war for a moment longer. Mary pursued her calling. The most of it she succeeded in doing in avery sunshiny way. She carried with her, and left behind her, cheer, courage, hope. Yet she had a widow's heart, and whenever she took awidow's hand in hers, and oftentimes, alone or against her sleepingchild's bedside, she had a widow's tears. But this work, or theseworks, --she made each particular ministration seem as if it were theonly one, --these works, that she might never have had the opportunity toperform had her nest-mate never been taken from her, seemed to keep Johnnear. Almost, sometimes, he seemed to walk at her side in her errands ofmercy, or to spread above her the arms of benediction. And so even thebitter was sweet, and she came to believe that never before had widowsuch blessed commutation. 

One day, a short, slight Confederate prisoner, newly brought in, andhobbling about the place where he was confined, with a vile bullet-holein his foot, came up to her and said:--

"Allow me, madam, --did that man call you by your right name, just now?"

Mary looked at him. She had never seen him before. 

"Yes, sir, " she said. 

She could see the gentleman, under much rags and dirt. 

"Are you Mrs. John Richling?"

A look of dismay came into his face as he asked the grave question. 

"Yes, sir, " replied Mary. 

His voice dropped, and he asked, with subdued haste:--

"Ith it pothible you're in mourning for him?"

She nodded. 

It was the little rector. He had somehow got it into his head thatpreachers ought to fight, and this was one of the results. Mary wentaway quickly, and told Dr. Sevier. The Doctor went to the commandinggeneral. It was a great humiliation to do so, he thought. There was noneworse, those days, in the eyes of the people. He craved and got thelittle man's release on parole. A fortnight later, as Dr. Sevier wassitting at the breakfast table, with the little rector at its oppositeend, he all at once rose to his full attenuated height, with a frown andthen a smile, and, tumbling the chair backward behind him, exclaimed:--

"Why, Laura!"--for it was that one of his two gay young nieces who stoodin the door-way. The banker's wife followed in just behind, and waspresently saying, with the prettiest heartiness, that Dr. Sevier lookedno older than the day they met the Florida general at dinner yearsbefore. She had just come in from the Confederacy, smuggling her son ofeighteen back to the city, to save him from the conscript officers, andLaura had come with her. And when the clergyman got his crutches intohis armpits and stood on one foot, and he and Laura both blushed as theyshook hands, the Doctor knew that she had come to nurse her woundedlover. That she might do this without embarrassment, they got married, and were thereupon as vexed with themselves as they could be under thecircumstances that they had not done it four or five years before. Ofcourse there was no parade; but Dr. Sevier gave a neat little dinner. Mary and Laura were its designers; Madame Zénobie was the master-builderand made the gumbo. One word about the war, whose smoke was over all theland, would have spoiled the broth. But no such word was spoken. 

It happened that the company was almost the same as that which had satdown in brighter days to that other dinner, which the banker's wiferecalled with so much pleasure. She and her husband and son were guests;also that Sister Jane, of whom they had talked, a woman of real goodnessand rather unrelieved sweetness; also her sister and bankruptedbrother-in-law. The brother-in-law mentioned several persons who, hesaid, once used to be very cordial to him and his wife, but now did notremember them; and his wife chid him, with the air of a fellow-martyr;but they could not spoil the tender gladness of the occasion. 

"Well, Doctor, " said the banker's wife, looking quite the old lady now, "I suppose your lonely days are over, now that Laura and her husband areto keep house for you. "

"Yes, " said the Doctor. 

But the very thought of it made him more lonely than ever. 

"It's a very pleasant and sensible arrangement, " said the lady, lookingvery practical and confidential; "Laura has told me all about it. It'sjust the thing for them and for you. "

"I think so, ma'am, " replied Dr. Sevier, and tried to make his statementgood. 

"I'm sure of it, " said the lady, very sweetly and gayly, and made afaint time-to-go beckon with a fan to her husband, to whom, in thefarther drawing-room, Laura and Mary stood talking, each with an armabout the other's waist. 

CHAPTER LXI

PEACE. 

It came with tears. But, ah! it lifted such an awful load from thehearts even of those who loved the lost cause. Husbands snatchedtheir wives once more to their bosoms, and the dear, brave, swarthy, rough-bearded, gray-jacketed boys were caught again in the wild armsof mothers and sisters. Everywhere there was glad, tearful kissing. Everywhere? Alas for the silent lips that remained unkissed, and thearms that remained empty! And alas for those to whom peace came toosuddenly and too soon! Poor Narcisse!

His salary still continues. So does his aunt. 

The Ristofalos came back all together. How delighted Mrs. ColonelRistofalo--I say Mrs. _Colonel_ Ristofalo--was to see Mary! And howimpossible it was, when they sat down together for a long talk, to avoidevery moment coming back to the one subject of "him. "

"Yes, ye see, there bees thim as is _called_ col-o-nels, whin in factthey bees only _liftinent_ col-o-nels. Yes. But it's not so wid him. Andhe's no different from the plain Raphael Ristofalah of eight yearago--the same perfict gintleman that he was when he sold b'iled eggs!"

And the colonel's "lady" smiled a gay triumph that gave Mary a newaffection for her. 

Sister Jane bowed to the rod of an inscrutable Providence. She could notunderstand how the Confederacy could fail, and justice still be justice;so, without understanding, she left it all to Heaven, and clung toher faith. Her brother-in-law never recovered his fortunes nor hissweetness. He could not bend his neck to the conqueror's yoke; he wentin search of liberty to Brazil--or was it Honduras? Little matter which, now, for he died there, both he and his wife, just as their faces wereturning again homeward, and it was dawning upon them once more thatthere is no land like Dixie in all the wide world over. 

The little rector--thanks, he says, to the skill of Dr. Sevier!--recovered perfectly the use of his mangled foot, so that heeven loves long walks. I was out walking with him one sunset hour in theautumn of--if I remember aright--1870, when whom should we spy but ourgood Kate Ristofalo, out driving in her family carriage? The cherubswere beside her, --strong, handsome boys. Mike held the reins; he was butthirteen, but he looked full three years better than that, and hadevidently employed the best tailor in St. Charles street to fit hisrather noticeable clothes. His mother had changed her mind about hisbeing a bruiser, though there isn't a doubt he had a Derringer in one oranother of his pockets. No, she was proposing to make him a doctor--"asurgeon, " she said; "and thin, if there bees another war"-- She wasfor making every edge cut. 

She did us the honor to stop the carriage, and drive up to thecurb-stone for a little chat. Her spirits were up, for Colonel Ristofalohad just been made a city councilman by a rousing majority. 

We expressed our regret not to see Raphael himself in the family groupenjoying the exquisite air. 

"Ha, ha! He ride out for pleasure?"--And then, with suddengravity, --"Aw, naw, sur! He's too busy. Much use ut is to be married toa public man! Ah! surs, I'm mighty tired of ut, now I tell ye!" Yet shelaughed again, without betraying much fatigue. "And how's Dr. Sevier?"

"He's well, " said the clergyman. 

"And Mrs. Richling?"

"She's well, too. "

Kate looked at the little rector out of the corners of her roguish Irisheyes, a killing look, and said:--

"Ye're sure the both o' thim bees well?"

"Yes, quite well, " replied he, ignoring the inane effort at jest. Shenodded a blithe good-day, and rolled on toward the lake, happy as theharvest weather, and with a kind heart for all the world. We walked on, and after the walk I dined with the rector. Dr. Sevier's place wasvacant, and we talked of him. The prettiest piece of furniture in thedining-room was an extremely handsome child's high chair that remained, unused, against the wall. It was Alice's, and Alice was an almost dailyvisitor. It had come in almost simultaneously with Laura's marriage, andmore and more frequently, as time had passed, the waiter had set it upto the table, at the Doctor's right hand, and lifted Goldenhair into it, until by and by she had totally outgrown it. But she had not grown outof the place of favor at the table. In these later days she had becomequite a school-girl, and the Doctor, in his place at the table, wouldoften sit with a faint, continuous smile on his face that no one couldbring there but her, to hear her prattle about Madame Locquet, and thevarious girls at Madame Locquet's school. 

 * * *

"It's actually pathetic, " said Laura, as we sat sipping our coffee afterthe meal, "to see how he idolizes that child. " Alice had just left theroom. 

"Why don't he idolize the child's"--began her husband, in undertone, and did not have to finish to make us understand. 

"He does, " murmured the smiling wife. 

"Then why shouldn't he tell her so?"

"My dear!" objected the wife, very softly and prettily. 

"I don't mean to speak lightly, " responded the husband, "but--they loveeach other; they suit each other; they complete each other; they don'tfeel their disparity of years; they're both so linked to Alice that itwould break either heart over again to be separated from her. I don'tsee why"--

Laura shook her head, smiling in the gentle way that only the happywives of good men have. 

"It will never be. "

 * * *

What changes!

 "The years creep slowly by"--

We seem to hear the old song yet. What changes! Laura has put two moreleaves into her dining-table. Children fill three seats. Alice hasanother. It is she, now, not her chair, that is tall--and fair. Mary, too, has a seat at the same board. This is their home now. Her hair isturning all to silver. So early? Yes; but she is--she never was--sobeautiful! They all see it--feel it; Dr. Sevier--the gentle, kind, straight old Doctor--most of all. And oh! when they two, who have neverjoined hands on this earth, go to meet John and Alice, --which God grantmay be at one and the same time, --what weeping there will be among God'spoor!

THE END.