right in seeking our food and
raiment?" She looked up inquiringly.

"Yes; like the fowls, the provision is made _for_ us through us. The
mistake is in making those things the _end_ of our search."

"Why, certainly!" exclaimed Mary, softly. She took fresh hold in her
husband's arm; the young man was drawing near.

"It's Narcisse!" murmured John. The Creole pressed suddenly forward with
a joyous smile, seized Richling's hand, and, lifting his hat to Mary as
John presented him, brought his heels together and bowed from the hips.

"I wuz juz coming at yo' 'ouse, Mistoo Itchlin. Yesseh. I wuz juz
sitting in my 'oom afteh dinneh, envelop' in my _'obe de chambre_, when
all at once I says to myseff, 'Faw distwaction I will go and see Mistoo
Itchlin!'"

"Will you walk in?" said the pair.

Mrs. Riley, standing in the door of her parlor, made way by descending
to the sidewalk. Her calico was white, with a small purple figure, and
was highly starched and beautifully ironed. Purple ribbons were at her
waist and throat. As she reached the ground Mary introduced Narcisse.
She smiled winningly, and when she said, with a courtesy: "Proud to know
ye, sur," Narcisse was struck with the sweetness of her tone. But she
swept away with a dramatic tread.

"Will you walk in?" Mary repeated; and Narcisse responded:--

"If you will pummit me yo' attention a few moment'." He bowed again and
made way for Mary to precede him.

"Mistoo Itchlin," he continued, going in, "in fact you don't give Misses
Witchlin my last name with absolute co'ectness."

"Did I not? Why, I hope you'll pardon"--

"Oh, I'm glad of it. I don' feel lak a pusson is my fwen' whilst they
don't call me Nahcisse." He directed his remark particularly to Mary.

"Indeed?" responded she. "But, at the same time, Mr. Richling would
have"-- She had turned to John, who sat waiting to catch her eye with
such intense amusement betrayed in his own that she saved herself
from laughter and disgrace only by instant silence.

"Yesseh," said Narcisse to Richling, "'tis the tooth."

He cast his eye around upon the prevailing hair-cloth and varnish.

"Misses Witchlin, I muz tell you I like yo' tas'e in that pawlah."

"It's Mrs. Riley's taste," said Mary.

"'Tis a beaucheouz tas'e," insisted the Creole, contemplatively, gazing
at the Pope's vestments tricked out with blue, scarlet, and gilt
spangles. "Well, Mistoo Itchlin, since some time I've been stipulating
me to do myseff tha