"Send for a priest."

The priest came, and was alone with him a whole afternoon. When he left,
the patient was very haggard and exhausted, but smiled and would not
suffer the crucifix to be removed from his breast.

One more morning came. Just before dawn Charlie, lying on a pallet in
the room, thought he was called, and came to the bedside.

"Old man," whispered the failing invalid, "is it caving yet?"

Charlie nodded.

"It won't pay you out."

"Oh, dat makes not'ing," said Charlie. Two big tears rolled down his
brown face. "Dat makes not'in."

The Colonel whispered once more:

"_Mes belles demoiselles!_ in paradise;--in the garden--I shall be with
them at sunrise;" and so it was.





"POSSON JONE'." [1]

[Footnote 1: Published in Appletons' Journal. Republished by