But Tom and Jerry were helpless, hopeless.  Doret stared at them; his hands came slowly together over his breast, his groping fingers interlocked; he closed his eyes, and for a moment he stood swaying.  Then he spoke again as a man speaks who suffers mortal anguish.  “She mus’ not die!  She—­mus’ not die!  I tell you somet’ing now:  dis li’l gal she’s come to mean whole lot for me.  At firs’ I’m sorry, de same lak you feel.  Sure!  But bimeby I get to know her, for she talk, talk—­all tam she talk, lak crazee person, an’ I learn to know her soul, her life.  Her soul is w’ite, m’sieu’s, it’s w’ite an’ beautiful; her life—­I lit ’im together in little piece, lak broken dish.  Some piece I never fin’, but I save ‘nough to mak’ picture here and dere.  Sometam I smile an’ listen to her; more tam’ I cry.  She mak’ de tears splash on my hand.

“Wal, I begin talk back to her.  I sing her li’l song, I tell her story, I cool her face, I give her medicine, an’ den she sleep.  I sit an’ watch her—­how many day an’ night I watch her I don’ know.  Sometam I sleep li’l bit, but when she stir an’ moan I spik to her an’ sing again until-she know my voice.”

’Poleon paused; the old men watched his working face.

“M’sieu’s,” he went on, “I’m lonely man.  I got no frien’s, no family; I live in dreams.  Dat’s all I got in dis whole worl’—­jus’ dreams.  One dream is dis, dat some day I’m going find somet’ing to love, somet’ing dat will love me.  De hanimals I tame dey run away; de birds I mak’ play wit’ dey fly south when de winter come.  I say, ’Doret, dis gal she’s poor, she’s frien’less, she’s alone.  She’s very seeck, but you goin’ mak’ her well.  She ain’t goin’ run away.  She ain’t goin’ fly off lak dem birds.  No.  She’s goin’ love you lak a broder, an’ mebbe she’s goin’ let you stay close by.’  Dieu!  Dat’s fine dream, eh?  It mak’ me sing inside; it mak’ me warm an’ glad.  I w’isper in her ear, ’Ma soeur!  Ma petite soeur!  It’s your beeg broder ‘Poleon dat spik.  He’s goin’ mak’ you well,’ an’ every tam she onderstan’.  But now—­”

A sob choked the speaker; he opened his tight-shut eyes and stared miserably at the two old men.  “I call to her an’ she don’ hear.  Wat I’m goin’ do, eh?”

Neither Linton nor Quirk made reply.  ’Poleon leaned forward; fiercely he inquired: 

“Which one of you feller’ is de bes’ man?  Which one is go to church de mos’?”

Tom and Jerry exchanged glances.  It was the latter who spoke: 

“Tom—­this gentleman-knows more about churches than I do.  He was married in one.”

Mr. Linton nodded.  “But that was thirty years ago, so I ain’t what you’d call a regular attendant.  I used to carry my religion in my wife’s name, when I had a wife.”

“You can pray?”

Tom shook his head doubtfully.  “I’d be sure to make a mess of it.”

Doret sank to a seat; he lowered his head upon his hands.  “Me, too,” he confessed.  “Every hour I mak’ prayer in my heart, but—­I can’t spik him out.”