art was broke, and I turned kidnapper."

"Home is the best place," said Levin; "I 'spect it is, even if folks is
pore. When Jimmy Phoebus give me a boat I thought I was rich as a
Jew."

"What is that name?" asked Van Dorn.

"James Phoebus: he's mother's sweetheart."

"_Ce ce ce!_" the Captain mused; "your mother lives, then?"

"Yes, sir. She's pore, but Jimmy loves her, and the ghost of father
feeds her."

"_Quedo!_ a ghost? what kind of thing is that? Aunt Patty sees them: I
never do."

"It comes an' puts sugar an' coffee in the window, an' sometimes a pair
of shoes an' a dress. Mother says it's father: I guess it is."

"_O Dios!_" lisped Van Dorn. "This Phoebus, is he a good man?"

"Brave as a lion, sir; pore as any pungy captain; the best friend I ever
had. I hoped mother would marry him, he's been a-waitin' fur her so
long. She's afraid father ain't dead."

"_O hala, hala!_ women are such waiters; but this man can wait too. Is
he strong?"

"He come mighty nigh givin' Joe Johnson a lickin' last Sunday, sir, in
Princess Anne. He hates a nigger-trader. Him an' Samson Hat, a black
feller, thinks as much of each other as two brothers."

"And he gave you a boat?"

"Yes, sir: Joe Johnson hired it of me, but I didn't know he was goin' to
run away niggers. He's got my boat an' ruined my credit, I 'spect, in
Princess Anne, an' what will mother do when I go to jail?"

"Why, this other man, Phoebus, is there to marry her or look after
her."

"Oh, Captain," sobbed Levin, putting his hands on Van Dorn's knees, and
laying his orphan head there too, "pore Jimmy's dead: Joe Johnson shot
him."

The Captain did not move or speak.

"I've been a drunkard, Captain," Levin sobbed again, in the confidence
of a child; "that's whair all our misery comes from. I've got nothin'
but my boat, an' people hires it to go gunnin' an' fishin' and
spreein', and they takes liquor with 'em, an' I drinks. God help me; I
never will agin, but die first!"

"Are you not afraid to lean on me?" lisped Van Dorn.

"No, sir."

"I have killed people, too."

"The Lord forgive you, sir; I know you won't kill _me_."

A sigh broke from the bandit's lips, in place of his usual soft lisp,
and was followed by a warm drop of water, as from the forest leaves now
bathed in night, that plashed on Levin's neck.

"O God," a soft voice said, "may I not die?"

Then Levin felt the same warm drops fall many times upon him, and his
nature opened lik