“How? surely, my honest friend, you—appointed to the conveyance of important secret dispatches—did not act so imprudently as to kick over an innocent man’s box in the public streets of the capital, to which you had been especially sent?” “Yes, I did, Doctor.” “Never act so unwisely again. If the police had got hold of you, think of what might have ensued.” “Well, it was not very wise of me, that’s a fact, Doctor. But, you see, I thought he meant mischief.” “And because you only thought he _meant_ mischief, _you_ must straightway proceed to _do_ mischief. That’s poor logic. But think over what I have told you now, while I look over these papers.” In half an hour’s time, the Doctor, laying down the documents, again turned towards Israel, and removing his spectacles very placidly, proceeded in the kindest and most familiar manner to read him a paternal detailed lesson upon the ill-advised act he had been guilty of, upon the Pont Neuf; concluding by taking out his purse, and putting three small silver coins into Israel’s hands, charging him to seek out the man that very day, and make both apology and restitution for his unlucky mistake. “All of us, my honest friend,” continued the Doctor, “are subject to making mistakes; so that the chief art of life, is to learn how best to remedy mistakes. Now one remedy for mistakes is honesty. So pay the man for the damage done to his box. And now, who are you, my friend? My correspondents here mention your name—Israel Potter—and say you are an American, an escaped prisoner of war, but nothing further. I want to hear your story from your own lips.” Israel immediately began, and related to the Doctor all his adventures up to the present time. “I suppose,” said the Doctor, upon Israel’s concluding, “that you desire to return to your friends across the sea?” “That I do, Doctor,” said Israel. “Well, I think I shall be able to procure you a passage.” Israel’s eyes sparkled with delight. The mild sage noticed it, and added: “But events in these times are uncertain. At the prospect of pleasure never be elated; but, without depression, respect the omens of ill. So much my life has taught me, my honest friend.” Israel felt as though a plum-pudding had been thrust under his nostrils, and then as rapidly withdrawn. “I think it is probable that in two or three days I shall want you to return with some papers to the persons who sent you to me. In that case you will have to come here once more, and then, my good friend, we will see what can be done towards getting you safely home again.” Israel was pouring out torrents of thanks when the Doctor interrupted him.