“I know it, my honest friend; the sweeter the more dangerous. Arsenic is sweeter than sugar. I know you are a very sensible young man, not to be taken in by an artful Ammonite, and so I think I had better convey your message to the girl forthwith.” So saying, the sage withdrew, leaving Israel once more gloomily seated before the rifled mantel, whose mirror was not again to reflect the form of the charming chambermaid. “Every time he comes in he robs me,” soliloquised Israel, dolefully; “with an air all the time, too, as if he were making me presents. If he thinks me such a very sensible young man, why not let me take care of myself?” It was growing dusk, and Israel, lighting the wax candle, proceeded to read in his Guide-book. “This is poor sight-seeing,” muttered he at last, “sitting here all by myself, with no company but an empty tumbler, reading about the fine things in Paris, and I myself a prisoner in Paris. I wish something extraordinary would turn up now; for instance, a man come in and give me ten thousand pounds. But here’s ‘Poor Richard;’ I am a poor fellow myself; so let’s see what comfort he has for a comrade.” Opening the little pamphlet, at random, Israel’s eyes fell on the following passages: he read them aloud— “‘_So what signifies waiting and hoping for better times? We may make these times better, if we bestir ourselves. Industry need not wish, and he that lives upon hope will die fasting, as Poor Richard says. There are no gains, without pains. Then help hands, for I have no lands, as Poor Richard says._’ Oh, confound all this wisdom! It’s a sort of insulting to talk wisdom to a man like me. It’s wisdom that’s cheap, and it’s fortune that’s dear. That ain’t in Poor Richard; but it ought to be,” concluded Israel, suddenly slamming down the pamphlet. He walked across the room, looked at the artificial flowers, and the rose-colored soap, and again went to the table and took up the two books. “So here is the ‘Way to Wealth,’ and here is the ‘Guide to Paris.’ Wonder now whether Paris lies on the Way to Wealth? if so, I am on the road. More likely though, it’s a parting-of-the-ways. I shouldn’t be surprised if the Doctor meant something sly by putting these two books in my hand. Somehow, the old gentleman has an amazing sly look—a sort of wild slyness—about him, seems to me. His wisdom seems a sort of sly, too. But all in honor, though. I rather think he’s one of those old gentlemen who say a vast deal of sense, but hint a world more. Depend upon it, he’s sly, sly, sly. Ah, what’s this Poor Richard says: ‘God helps them that help themselves:’ Let’s consider that. Poor Richard ain’t a Dunker, that’s certain, though he has lived in Pennsylvania. ‘God helps them that help themselves.’ I’ll just mark that saw, and leave the pamphlet open to refer to it again—Ah!”