By and by there seemed--there was--a twinkling dawn of returning reason. Slowly, peacefully, with an increase unseen from day to day, the light of reason came into the eyes, and speech became coherent; but withal there came a failing of the wrecked body, and the doctor said that monsieur was both better and worse. One evening, as Charlie sat by the vine-clad window with his fireless pipe in his hand, the old Colonel's eyes fell full upon his own, and rested there. "Charl--," he said with an effort, and his delighted nurse hastened to the bedside and bowed his best ear. There was an unsuccessful effort or two, and then he whispered, smiling with sweet sadness,-- "We didn't trade." The truth, in this case, was a secondary matter to Charlie; the main point was to give a pleasing answer. So he nodded his head decidedly, as who should say--"Oh yes, we did, it was a bona-fide swap!" but when he saw the smile vanish, he tried the other expedient and shook his head with still more vigor, to signify that they had not so much as approached a bargain; and the smile returned. Charlie wanted to see the vine recognized. He stepped backward to the window with a broad smile, shook the foliage, nodded and looked smart. "I know," said the Colonel, with beaming eyes,"--many weeks." The next day-- "Charl--" The best ear went down. "Send for a priest." The priest came, and was alone with him a whole afternoon. When he left, the patient was very haggard and exhausted, but smiled and would not suffer the crucifix to be removed from his breast. One more morning came. Just before dawn Charlie, lying on a pallet in the room, thought he was called, and came to the bedside. "Old man," whispered the failing invalid, "is it caving yet?" Charlie nodded. "It won't pay you out." "Oh, dat makes not'ing," said Charlie. Two big tears rolled down his brown face. "Dat makes not'in." The Colonel whispered once more: "_Mes belles demoiselles!_ in paradise;--in the garden--I shall be with them at sunrise;" and so it was. "POSSON JONE'." [1] [Footnote 1: Published in Appletons' Journal. Republished by permission.] To Jules St.-Ange--elegant little heathen--there yet remained at manhood a remembrance of having been to school, and of having been taught by a stony-headed Capuchin that the world is round--for example, like a cheese. This round world is a cheese to be eaten through, and Jules had nibbled quite into his cheese-world already at twenty-two.