sign of the cross as the parson knelt in prayer, and even whispered “Hail Mary,” etc. quite through, twice over.

Morning broke in summer glory upon a cluster of villas behind the city, nestled under live oaks and magnolias on the banks of a deep bayou, and known as Suburb St. Jean.

With the first beam came the West Floridian and the Creole out upon the bank below the village. Upon the parsons’s arm hung a pair of antique saddlebags. Baptiste limped wearily behind; both his eyes were encircled with broad, blue rings, and one cheek bone bore the official impress of every knuckle of Colossus’ left hand. The “beautiful to take care of somebody” had lost his charge. At mention of the negro he became wild, and, half in English, half in the “gumbo” dialect, said murderous things. Intimidated by Jules to calmness, he became able to speak confidently on one point: he could, would, and did swear that Colossus had gone home to the Florida parishes; he was almost certain; in fact, he thought so.

There was a clicking of pulleys as the three appeared upon the bayou’s margin, and Baptiste pointed out, in the deep shadow of a great oak, the Isabella, moored among the bulrushes, and just spreading her sails for departure. Moving down to where she lay, the parson and his friend paused on the bank, loath to say farewell.

“O Jools!” said the parson, “supposin’ Colossus ain’t gone home! O Jools, if you’ll look him out for me, I’ll never forget you—I’ll never forget you, nohow, Jools. No, Jools, I never will believe he taken that money. Yes, I know all niggahs will steal”—he set foot upon the gang plank—“but Colossus wouldn’t steal from me. Good-by.”

“Misty Posson Jone’,” said St.-Ange, putting his hand on the parson’s arm with genuine affection, “hol’on. You see dis money—w’at I win las’ night? Well, I win it by a specious providence, ain’t it?”

“There’s no tellin’,” said the humbled Jones. “Providence

Moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform.”

“Ah!” cried the Creole, “c’est very true. I ged this money in the mysterieuze way. Mais, if I keep dis money, you know where it goin’ be to-night?”

“I really can’t say,” replied the parson.

“Goin’ to de dev’,” said the sweetly smiling young man.

The schooner captain, leaning against the shrouds, and even Baptiste, laughed outright.

“O Jools, you mustn’t!”

“Well, den, w’at I shall do wid it?”

“Anything!” answered the parson; “better donate it away to some poor man—”

“Ah! Misty Posson Jone’, dat is w’at I want. You los’ five hondred dollar’—’twas me fault.”

“No, it wa’n’t, Jools.”

“Mais, it was!”

“No!”

“It was me fault! I swear it was me fault! Mais, here is five hondred dollar’; I wish you shall take it. Here! I don’t got no use for money.—Oh, my faith! Posson Jone’, you must not begin to cry some more.”