"But there are some things I do know. Just think; she's with her mother where she is. Imagine her falling ill here,--as you've told me she used to do,--and you with that bakery on your hands." Richling looked grave. "Oh no," continued the little man. "You've been so brave and patient, you and your wife, both,--do be so a little bit longer! Live close; save your money; go on rising in value in your business; and after a little you'll rise clear out of the sphere you're now in. You'll command your own time; you'll build your own little home; and life and happiness and usefulness will be fairly and broadly open before you." Richling gave heed with a troubled face, and let his companion draw him into the shadow of that "St. Charles" from the foot of whose stair-way he had once been dragged away as a vagrant. "See, Richling! Every few weeks you may read in some paper of how a man on some ferry-boat jumps for the wharf before the boat has touched it, falls into the water, and-- Make sure! Be brave a little longer--only a little longer! Wait till you're sure!" "I'm sure enough!" "Oh, no, you're not! Wait till this political broil is over. They say Lincoln is elected. If so, the South is not going to submit to it. Nobody can tell what the consequences are to be. Suppose we should have war? I don't think we shall, but suppose we should? There would be a general upheaval, commercial stagnation, industrial collapse, shrinkage everywhere! Wait till it's over. It may not be two weeks hence; it can hardly be more than ninety days at the outside. If it should the North would be ruined, and you may be sure they are not going to allow _that_. Then, when all starts fair again, bring your wife and baby. I'll tell you what to do, Richling!" "Will you?" responded the listener, with an amiable laugh that the little man tried to echo. "Yes. Ask Dr. Sevier! He's right here in the next street. He was on your side last time; maybe he'll be so now." "Done!" said Richling. They went. The rector said he would do an errand in Canal street, while Richling should go up and see the physician. Dr. Sevier was in. "Why, Richling!" He rose to receive him. "How are you?" He cast his eye over his visitor with professional scrutiny. "What brings _you_ here?" "To tell you that I've written for Mary," said Richling, sinking wearily into a chair. "Have you mailed the letter?" "I'm taking it to the post-office now." The Doctor threw one leg energetically over the other, and picked up the same paper-knife that he had handled when, two years and a half before, he had sat thus, talking to Mary and John on the eve of their separation.