“Well, because he wears such curious-colored clothes. No criminal would ever wear such clothes. He could never pass unnoticed anywhere; and being probably the only person in the world who dressed that way, he could always be detected.” “You are doubtless correct,” I replied. “Let us keep him.” When we told the good man that he could stay all night, he was extremely obliged to us, and went to bed quite early. After we had fastened the house and had gone to our room, my wife said to me, “Where is your pistol?” I produced it. “Well,” said she, “I think you ought to have it where you can get at it.” “Why so?” I asked. “You generally want me to keep it out of sight and reach.” “Yes; but when there is a strange man in the house we ought to take extra precautions.” “But this man you say is honest,” I replied. “If he committed a crime he could not escape,--his appearance is so peculiar.” “But that wouldn't do us any good, if we were both murdered,” said Euphemia, pulling a chair up to my side of the bed, and laying the pistol carefully thereon, with the muzzle toward the bed. We were not murdered, and we had a very pleasant breakfast with the artist, who told us more anecdotes of his life in Mexico and other places. When, after breakfast, he shut up his valise, preparatory to starting away, we felt really sorry. When he was ready to go, he asked for his bill. “Oh! There is no bill,” I exclaimed. “We have no idea of charging you anything. We don't really keep a hotel, as I told you.” “If I had known that,” said he, looking very grave, “I would not have stayed. There is no reason why you should give me food and lodgings, and I would not, and did not, ask it. I am able to pay for such things, and I wish to do so.” We argued with him for some time, speaking of the habits of country people and so on, but he would not be convinced. He had asked for accommodation expecting to pay for it, and would not be content until he had done so. “Well,” said Euphemia, “we are not keeping this house for profit, and you can't force us to make anything out of you. If you will be satisfied to pay us just what it cost us to entertain you, I suppose we shall have to let you do that. Take a seat for a minute, and I will make out your bill.” So the artist and I sat down and talked of various matters, while my wife got out her traveling stationery-box, and sat down to the dining-table to make out the bill. After a long, long time, as it appeared to me, I said: “My dear, if the amount of that bill is at all proportioned to the length of time it takes to make it out, I think our friend here will wish he had never said anything about it.” “It's nearly done,” said she, without raising her head, and, in about ten or fifteen minutes more, she rose and presented the bill to our guest. As I noticed that he seemed somewhat surprised at it, I asked him to let me look over it with him. The bill, of which I have a copy, read as follows: July 12th, 187- ARTIST,