There was a clicking of pulleys as the three appeared upon the bayou’s margin, and Baptiste pointed out, in the deep shadow of a great oak, the Isabella, moored among the bulrushes, and just spreading her sails for departure.  Moving down to where she lay, the parson and his friend paused on the bank, loath to say farewell.

“O Jools!” said the parson, “supposin’ Colossus ain’t gone home!  O Jools, if you’ll look him out for me, I’ll never forget you—­I’ll never forget you, nohow, Jools.  No, Jools, I never will believe he taken that money.  Yes, I know all niggahs will steal”—­he set foot upon the gang-plank—­“but Colossus wouldn’t steal from me.  Good-by.”

“Misty Posson Jone,’” said St.-Ange, putting his hand on the parson’s arm with genuine affection, “hol’ on.  You see dis money—­w’at I win las’ night?  Well, I win’ it by a specious providence, ain’t it?”

“There’s no tellin’,” said the humbled Jones.  “Providence

     ’Moves in a mysterious way
        His wonders to perform.’”

“Ah!” cried the Creole, “c’est very true.  I ged this money in the mysterieuze way. Mais, if I keep dis money, you know where it goin’ be to-night?”

“I really can’t say,” replied the parson.

“Goin’ to de dev’,” said the sweetly-smiling yonng man.

The schooner-captain, leaning against the shrouds, and even Baptiste, laughed outright.

“O Jools, you mustn’t!”

“Well, den, w’at I shall do wid it?”

“Any thing!” answered the parson; “better donate it away to some poor man”—­

“Ah!  Misty Posson Jone’, dat is w’at I want.  You los’ five hondred dollar’—­’twas me fault.”

“No, it wa’n’t, Jools.”

“Mais, it was!”

“No!”

“It was me fault!  I swear it was me fault! Mais, here is five hondred dollar’; I wish you shall take it.  Here!  I don’t got no use for money.—­Oh, my faith!  Posson Jone’, you must not begin to cry some more.”

Parson Jones was choked with tears.  When he found voice he said: 

“O Jools, Jools, Jools! my pore, noble, dear, misguidened friend! ef you hed of hed a Christian raisin’!  May the Lord show you your errors better’n I kin, and bless you for your good intentions—­oh, no!  I cayn’t touch that money with a ten-foot pole; it wa’n’t rightly got; you must really excuse me, my dear friend, but I cayn’t touch it.”

St.-Ange was petrified.

“Good-by, dear Jools,” continued the parson.  “I’m in the Lord’s haynds, and he’s very merciful, which I hope and trust you’ll find it out.  Good-by!”—­the schooner swang slowly off before the breeze—­“good-by!”

St.-Ange roused himself.

“Posson Jone’! make me hany’ow dis promise:  you never, never, never will come back to New Orleans.”

“Ah, Jools, the Lord willin’, I’ll never leave home again!”