"And you'll not die with these notions, either," retorted the other. "Look here, I am going. Good-by. You've got to get rid of them, you know, before your wife comes. I'm glad you are not going to send for her now." "I didn't say I wasn't." "I wouldn't." "Oh, you don't know what you'd do," said Richling. The little preacher eyed him steadily for a moment, and then slowly returned to where he still sat holding his knee. They had a long talk in very quiet tones. At the end the rector asked:-- "Didn't you once meet Dr. Sevier's two nieces--at his house?" "Yes," said Richling. "Do you remember the one named Laura?--the dark, flashing one?" "Yes." "Well,--oh, pshaw! I could tell you something funny, but I don't care to do it." What he did not care to tell was, that she had promised him five years before to be his wife any day when he should say the word. In all that time, and this very night, one letter, one line almost, and he could have ended his waiting; but he was not seeking his own happiness. They smiled together. "Well, good-by again. Don't think I'm always going to persecute you with my solicitude." "I'm not worth it," said Richling, slipping slowly down from his high stool and letting the little man out into the street. A little way down the street some one coming out of a dark alley just in time to confront the clergyman extended a hand in salutation. "Good-evenin', Mr. Blank." He took the hand. It belonged to a girl of eighteen, bareheaded and barefooted, holding in the other hand a small oil-can. Her eyes looked steadily into his. "You don't know me," she said, pleasantly. "Why, yes, now I remember you. You're Maggie." "Yes," replied the girl. "Don't you recollect--in the mission-school? Don't you recollect you married me and Larry? That's two years ago." She almost laughed out with pleasure. "And where's Larry?" "Why, don't you recollect? He's on the sloop-o'-war _Preble_." Then she added more gravely: "I aint seen him in twenty months. But I know he's all right. I aint a-scared about _that_--only if he's alive and well; yes, sir. Well, good-evenin', sir. Yes, sir; I think I'll come to the mission nex' Sunday--and I'll bring the baby, will I? All right, sir. Well, so long, sir. Take care of yourself, sir." What a word that was! It echoed in his ear all the way home: "Take care of _yourself_." What boast is there for the civilization that refines away the unconscious heroism of the unfriended poor? He was glad he had not told Richling all his little secret. But Richling found it out later from Dr. Sevier. CHAPTER XLIV. WHAT WOULD YOU DO? Three days Mary's letter lay unanswered. About dusk of the third, as Richling was hurrying across the yard of the bakery on some errand connected with the establishment, a light touch was laid upon his shoulder; a peculiar touch, which he recognized in an instant. He turned in the gloom and exclaimed, in a whisper:-- "Why, Ristofalo!"