emains of Dr.
Sevier's last loan to him was too small for it. Thereupon he committed
one error more,--but it was the last. He sunk his standard, and began
again to look for service among industries that could offer employment
only to manual labor. He crossed the river and stirred about among the
dry-docks and ship-carpenters' yards of the suburb Algiers. But he could
neither hew spars, nor paint, nor splice ropes. He watched a man half a
day calking a boat; then he offered himself for the same work, did it
fairly, and earned half a day's wages. But then the boat was done, and
there was no other calking at the moment along the whole harbor front,
except some that was being done on a ship by her own sailors.

"John," said Mary, dropping into her lap the sewing that hardly paid for
her candle, "isn't it hard to realize that it isn't twelve months since
your hardships commenced? They _can't_ last much longer, darling."

"I know that," said John. "And I know I'll find a place presently, and
then we'll wake up to the fact that this was actually less than a year
of trouble in a lifetime of love."

"Yes," rejoined Mary, "I know your patience will be rewarded."

"But what I want is work now, Mary. The bread of idleness is getting
_too_ bitter. But never mind; I'm going to work to-morrow;--never mind
where. It's all right. You'll see."

She smiled, and looked into his eyes again with a confession of
unreserved trust. The next day he reached the--what shall we say?--big
end of his last mistake. What it was came out a few mornings after, when
he called at Number 5 Carondelet street.

"The Doctah is not in pwesently," said Narcisse. "He ve'y hawdly comes
in so soon as that. He's living home again, once mo', now. He's ve'y
un'estless. I tole 'im yistiddy, 'Doctah, I know juz 'ow you feel, seh;
'tis the same way with myseff. You ought to git ma'ied!'"

"Did he say he would?" asked Richling.

"Well, you know, Mistoo Itchlin, so the povvub says, 'Silent give
consense.' He juz look at me--nevvah said a word--ha! he couldn'! You
not lookin' ve'y well, Mistoo Itchlin. I suppose 'tis that waum
weatheh."

"I suppose it is; at least, partly," said Richling, and added nothing
more, but looked along and across the ceiling, and down at a skeleton in
a corner, that was offering to shake hands with him. He was at a loss
how to talk to Narcisse. Both Mary and he had grown a little ashamed of
their covert sarcasms, and yet to leave them ou