For it was not what a mere acquaintance could have joined them in, albeit its subject was the old one of meat and raiment. Their talk had been light enough on their starting out, notwithstanding John had earned nothing that day. But it had toned down, or, we might say up, to a sober, though not a sombre, quality. John had in some way evolved the assertion that even the life of the body alone is much more than food and clothing and shelter; so much more, that only a divine provision can sustain it; so much more, that the fact is, when it fails, it generally fails with meat and raiment within easy reach. Mary devoured his words. His spiritual vision had been a little clouded of late, and now, to see it clear-- She closed her eyes for bliss. "Why, John," she said, "you make it plainer than any preacher I ever heard." This, very naturally, silenced John. And Mary, hoping to start him again, said:-- "Heaven provides. And yet I'm sure you're 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."