desertion from their fellows, and sadly
learn that

"'Tis ever thus: Those shadows we call friends,
Attend us through the sunshine of success,
To vanish in adversity's dark hour."

"Yet there are followers that adhere to them in their fallen fortunes
with more than canine fidelity, sticking to them like their sins,
clinging to their persons, cleaving to their garments, with an
attachment and in numbers that grow with their patron's destitution."

"But I maintain," Mrs. Shortridge replied, "that it is not only the
poor and destitute that here support such a retinue. I have repeatedly
seen in Lisbon, and elsewhere, young ladies, and among others a young
widow of high rank, the sister of the Bishop of Oporto, lying with her
head in the lap of her friend, who parted the locks of her hair to
search--"

"Stop!" said Lady Mabel, laying her hand on Mrs. Shortridge's mouth,
"you need not chase those small deer any further through the
wood. Leave that privileged sport to the natives."

Breakfast was now ready, and Shortridge called to the ladies to lose
no time. L'Isle, seeing the young friar in front of the _venda_,
brought him in and seated him beside him. He pressed upon him many
good things, which the house did not furnish; and this being no
fast-day, the friar eat a meal better proportioned to his youth, his
bulk, and his health, than his last night's meagre fare. He showed his
patriotism by his approval of one of those hams of marvelous flavor,
the boast of Portugal, the product of her swine, not stuffed into
obesity in prison, but gently swelling to rotundity while ranging the
free forest, and selecting the _bolotas_, and other acorns, as they
drop fresh from the boughs. The friar was not so busy with his meal
but what he continued to observe his new friends closely, and while
the servants were getting their breakfast, he seized the leisure
afforded to converse with L'Isle, and with Lady Mabel through
him. After many questions asked and answered, the friar became
thoughtful and abstracted, as if he had been brought in contact with a
new class of persons and ideas, which he could not at once comprehend.

L'Isle now asked him, "When and why he had put on St. Francis' frock?"

"I do not remember when I wore any other dress. I was not four years
old when I was seized with a violent sickness, and soon at the point
of death. My mother vowed that if St. Francis would hear her prayer,
and spare me, her only son,