dn'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
hundred 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."

Parson Jones was choked with tears. When he found voice he said:--

"O Jools, Jools, Jools! my pore, noble, dear, misguidened friend! ef you
hed of hed a Christian raisin'! May the Lord show you your errors
better'n I kin, and bless you for your good intentions--oh, no! I cayn't
touch that money with a ten-foot pole; it wa'n't rightly got; you must
really excuse me, my dear friend, but I cayn't touch it."

St.-Ange was petrified.

"Good-by, dear Jools," continued the parson. "I'm in the Lord's haynds,
and he's very merciful, which I hope and trust you'll find it out.
Good-by!"--the schooner swung slowly off before the breeze--"good-by!"

St.-Ange roused himself. "Posson Jone'! make me hany'ow _dis_ promise:
you never, never, _never_ will come back to New Orleans."

"Ah, Jools, the Lord willin', I'll never leave home again!"

"All right!" cried the Creole; "I thing he's willin'. Adieu, Posson
Jone'. My faith'! you are the so fighting an' moz rilligious man as I
never saw! Adieu! Adieu!"

Baptiste uttered a cry and presently ran by his master toward the
schooner, his hands full of clods.

St.-Ange looked just in time to see the sable form of Colossus of Rhodes
emerge from the vessel's hold, and the pastor of Smyr