"O Jools!" said the parson, "supposin' Colossus ain't gone home! O Jools, if you'll look him out for me, I'll never forget you--I'll never forget you, nohow, Jools. No, Jools, I never will believe he taken that money. Yes, I know all niggahs will steal"--he set foot upon the gang-plank--"but Colossus wouldn't steal from me. Good-by." "Misty Posson Jone,'" said St.-Ange, putting his hand on the parson's arm with genuine affection, "hol' on. You see dis money--w'at I win las' night? Well, I win' it by a specious providence, ain't it?" "There's no tellin'," said the humbled Jones. "Providence 'Moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform.'" "Ah!" cried the Creole, "_c'est_ very true. I ged this money in the mysterieuze way. _Mais_, if I keep dis money, you know where it goin' be to-night?" "I really can't say," replied the parson. "Goin' to de dev'," said the sweetly-smiling yonng man. The schooner-captain, leaning against the shrouds, and even Baptiste, laughed outright. "O Jools, you mustn't!" "Well, den, w'at I shall do wid _it?_" "Any thing!" answered the parson; "better donate it away to some poor man"-- "Ah! Misty Posson Jone', dat is w'at I want. You los' five hondred dollar'--'twas me fault." "No, it wa'n't, Jools." "_Mais_, it was!" "No!" "It _was_ me fault! I _swear_ it was me fault! _Mais_, here is five hondred dollar'; I wish you shall take it. Here! I don't got no use for money.--Oh, my faith! Posson Jone', you must not begin to cry some more." Parson Jones was choked with tears. When he found voice he said: "O Jools, Jools, Jools! my pore, noble, dear, misguidened friend! ef you hed of hed a Christian raisin'! May the Lord show you your errors better'n I kin, and bless you for your good intentions--oh, no! I cayn't touch that money with a ten-foot pole; it wa'n't rightly got; you must really excuse me, my dear friend, but I cayn't touch it." St.-Ange was petrified. "Good-by, dear Jools," continued the parson. "I'm in the Lord's haynds, and he's very merciful, which I hope and trust you'll find it out. Good-by!"--the schooner swang slowly off before the breeze--"good-by!" St.-Ange roused himself. "Posson Jone'! make me hany'ow _dis_ promise: you never, never, _never_ will come back to New Orleans." "Ah, Jools, the Lord willin', I'll never leave home again!" "All right!" cried the Creole; "I thing he's willin'. Adieu, Posson Jone'. My faith'! you are the so fighting an' moz rilligious man as I never saw! Adieu! Adieu!" Baptiste uttered a cry and presently ran by his master toward the schooner, his hands full of clods. St.-Ange looked just in time to see the sable form of Colossus of Rhodes emerge from the vessel's hold, and the pastor of Smyrna and Bethesda seize him in his embrace. "O Colossus! you outlandish old nigger! Thank the Lord! Thank the Lord!"