Both pairs enlivened their walk with conversation. Parson Jones
descanted upon the doctrine he had mentioned, as illustrated in the
perplexities of cotton-growing, and concluded that there would always be
"a special provi_dence_ again' cotton untell folks quits a-pressin' of
it and haulin' of it on Sundays!"

"_Je dis_," said St.-Ange, in response, "I thing you is juz right. I
believe, me, strong-strong in the improvidence, yes. You know my papa he
hown a sugah-plantation, you know. 'Jules, me son,' he say one time to
me, 'I goin' to make one baril sugah to fedge the moze high price in New
Orleans.' Well, he take his bez baril sugah--I nevah see a so careful
man like me papa always to make a so beautiful sugah _et sirop_. 'Jules,
go at Father Pierre an' ged this lill pitcher fill with holy water, an'
tell him sen' his tin bucket, and I will make it fill with _quitte_.' I
ged the holy-water; my papa sprinkle it over the baril, an' make one
cross on the 'ead of the baril."

"Why, Jools," said Parson Jones, "that didn't do no good."

"Din do no good! Id broughd the so great value! You can strike me dead
if thad baril sugah din fedge the more high cost than any other in the
city. _Parce-que_, the man what buy that baril sugah he make a mistake
of one hundred pound"--falling back--"_Mais_ certainlee!"

"And you think that was growin' out of the holy-water?" asked the
parson.

"_Mais_, what could make it else? Id could not be the _quitte_, because
my papa keep the bucket, an' forget to sen' the _quitte_ to Father
Pierre."