ould come at their call. When the messenger
returned with word from Mrs. Riley that both of them were out, the
Doctor's mind was much relieved. So a day and a night passed in which he
did not close his eyes.

The next morning, as he stood in his office, hat in hand, and a finger
pointing to a prescription on his desk, which he was directing Narcisse
to give to some one who would call for it, there came a sudden hurried
pounding of feminine feet on the stairs, a whiff of robes in the
corridor, and Mary Richling rushed into his presence all tears and
cries.

"O Doctor!--O Doctor! O God, my husband! my husband! O Doctor, my
husband is in the Parish Prison!" She sank to the floor.

The Doctor raised her up. Narcisse hurried forward with his hands full
of restoratives.

"Take away those things," said the Doctor, resentfully. "Here!--Mrs.
Richling, take Narcisse's arm and go down and get into my carriage. I
must write a short note, excusing myself from an appointment, and then I
will join you."

Mary stood alone, turned, and passed out of the office beside the young
Creole, but without taking his proffered arm. Did she suspect him of
having something to do with this dreadful affair?

"Missez Witchlin," said he, as soon as they were out in the corridor,
"I dunno if you goin' to billiv me, but I boun' to tell you that
nodwithstanning that yo' 'uzban' is displease' with me, an'
nodwithstanning 'e's in that calaboose, I h'always fine 'im a puffic
gen'leman--that Mistoo Itchlin,--an' I'll sweah 'e _is_ a gen'leman!"

She lifted her anguished eyes and looked into his beautiful face. Could
she trust him? His little forehead was as hard as a goat's, but his eyes
were brimming with tears, and his chin quivered. As they reached the
head of the stairs he again offered his arm, and she took it, moaning
softly, as they descended:--

"O John! O John! O my husband, my husband!"

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE TROUGH OF THE SEA.

Narcisse, on receiving his scolding from Richling, had gone to his home
in Casa Calvo street, a much greater sufferer than he had appeared to
be. While he was confronting his abaser there had been a momentary
comfort in the contrast between Richling's ill-behavior and his own
self-control. It had stayed his spirit and turned the edge of Richling's
sharp denunciations. But, as he moved off the field, he found himself,
at every step, more deeply wounded than even he had supposed. He began
to suffocate with