me, Jools, I can't help you. It's no use; it's a matter of conscience
with me, Jools."

"_Mais oui!_ 'tis a matt' of conscien' wid me, the same."

"But, Jools, the money's none o' mine, nohow; it belongs to Smyrny, you
know."

"If I could make jus' _one_ bet," said the persuasive St.-Ange, "I would
leave this place, fas'-fas', yes. If I had thing--_mais_ I did not
soupspicion this from you, Posson Jone'"--

"Don't, Jools, don't!"

"No! Posson Jone'."

"You're bound to win?" said the parson, wavering.

"_Mais certainement!_ But it is not to win that I want;'tis me
conscien'--me honor!"

"Well, Jools, I hope I'm not a-doin' no wrong. I'll loan you some of
this money if you say you'll come right out 'thout takin' your
winnin's."

All was still. The peeping children could see the parson as he lifted
his hand to his breast-pocket. There it paused a moment in bewilderment,
then plunged to the bottom. It came back empty, and fell lifelessly at
his side. His head dropped upon his breast, his eyes were for a moment
closed, his broad palms were lifted and pressed against his forehead, a