grow, wants a draught which will make him see his home among the
cocoa-palms, behold the Café des Exilés ready to take the poor child up
and give him the breast! And if gold or silver he has them not, why
Heaven and Santa Maria, and Saint Christopher bless him! It makes no
difference. Here is a rocking-chair, here a cigarette, and here a light
from the host's own tinder. He will pay when he can."

As this easily pardoned pride said, so it often occurred; and if the
newly come exile said his father was a Spaniard--"Come!" old M.
D'Hemecourt would cry; "another glass; it is an innocent drink; my
mother was a Castilian." But, if the exile said his mother was a
Frenchwoman, the glasses would be forthcoming all the same, for "My
father," the old man would say, "was a Frenchman of Martinique, with
blood as pure as that wine and a heart as sweet as this honey; come, a
glass of orgeat;" and he would bring it himself in a quart tumbler.

Now, there are jealousies and jealousies. There are people who rise up
quickly and kill, and there are others who turn their hot thoughts over
silently in their minds as a brooding bird turns her eggs in the nest.
Thus did Manuel Mazaro, and took it ill that Galahad should see a vision
in the temple while he and all the brethren tarried without. Pauline had
been to the Café des Exilés in some degree what the image of the Virgin
was to their churches at home; and for her father to whisper her name to
one and not to another was, it seemed to Mazaro, as if the old man, were
he a sacristan, should say to some single worshiper, "Here, you may have
this madonna; I make it a present to you." Or, if such was not the
handsome young Cuban's feeling, such, at least, was the disguise his
jealousy put on. If Pauline was to be handed down from her niche, why,
then, farewell Café des Exilés. She was its preserving influence, she
made the place holy; she was the burning candles on the altar. Surely