"Because," said the parson, "for two reasons: firstly, I hare broken the
laws, and ought to stand the penalty; and secondly--you must really
excuse me, Jools, you know, but the pass has been got onfairly, I'm
afeerd. You told the judge I was innocent; and in neither case it don't
become a Christian (which I hope I can still say I am one) to 'do evil
that good may come.' I muss stay."

M. St.-Ange stood up aghast, and for a moment speechless, at this
exhibition of moral heroism; but an artifice was presently hit upon.
"_Mais_, Posson Jone'!"--in his old _falsetto_--"de order--you cannot
read it, it is in French--compel you to go hout, sir!"

"Is that so?" cried the parson, bounding up with radiant face--"is that
so, Jools?"

The young man nodded, smiling; but, though he smiled, the fountain of
his tenderness was opened. He made the 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 parson's arm hung a pair of antique
saddle-bags. 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's left hand. The "beautiful to take
care of somebody" had lost his charge. At mention of the negro he became