"And by making believe you don't want things," said Mary. "Ah!" exclaimed Narcisse, "I nevvah kin do that!" and Richling gave a laugh that was not without sympathy. "But I muz tell you, Mistoo Itchlin, I am aztonizh at _you_." An instant apprehension seized John and Mary. They _knew_ their ill-concealed amusement would betray them, and now they were to be called to account. But no. "Yesseh," continued Narcisse, "you 'ave the gweatez o'casion to be the subjec' of congwatulation, Mistoo Itchlin, to 'ave the poweh to _ac_cum'late money in those hawd time' like the pwesen'!" The Richlings cried out with relief and amused surprise. "Why, you couldn't make a greater mistake!" "Mistaken! Hah! W'en I ged that memo'andum f'om Dr. Seveeah to paz that fifty dollah at yo' cwedit, it burz f'om me, that egs_clam_ation! 'Acchilly! 'ow that Mistoo Itchlin deserve the 'espect to save a lill quantity of money like that!" The laughter of John and Mary did not impede his rhapsody, nor their protestations shake his convictions. "Why," said Richling, lolling back, "the Doctor has simply omitted to have you make the entry of"-- But he had no right to interfere with the Doctor's accounts. However, Narcisse was not listening. "You' compel' to be witch some day, Mistoo Itchlin, ad that wate of p'ogwess; I am convince of that. I can deteg that indis_pu_tably in yo' physio'nomie. Me--I _can't_ save a cent! Mistoo Itchlin, you would be aztonizh to know 'ow bad I want some money, in fact; exceb that I am _too_ pwoud to dizclose you that state of my condition!" He paused and looked from John to Mary, and from Mary to John again. "Why, I'll declare," said Richling, sincerely, dropping forward with his chin on his hand, "I'm sorry to hear"-- But Narcisse interrupted. "Diffyculty with me--I am not willing to baw'." Mary drew a long breath and glanced at her husband. He changed his attitude and, looking upon the floor, said, "Yes, yes." He slowly marked the bare floor with the edge of his shoe-sole. "And yet there are times when duty actually"-- "I believe you, Mistoo Itchlin," said Narcisse, quickly forestalling Mary's attempt to speak. "Ah, Mistoo Itchlin! _if_ I had baw'd money ligue the huncle of my hant!" He waved his hand to the ceiling and looked up through that obstruction, as it were, to the witnessing sky. "But I _hade_ that--to baw'! I tell you 'ow 'tis with me, Mistoo Itchlin; I nevvah would consen' to baw' money on'y if I pay a big inte'es' on it. An' I'm compel' to tell you one thing, Mistoo Itchlin, in fact: I nevvah would leave money with Doctah Seveeah to invez faw me--no!" Richling gave a little start, and cast his eyes an instant toward his wife. She spoke. "We'd rather you wouldn't say that to us, Mister ----" There was a commanding smile at one corner of her lips. "You don't know what a friend"-- Narcisse had already apologized by two or three gestures to each of his hearers.