The sequel to such toasts may readily be imagined. By six o'clock, penniless and tipsy, Demming was apologizing to the Bishop on the hotel piazza. He had the grace to seem ashamed of himself. "Wust o' 'tis flingin' away all thet money; but I felt kinder like makin' everybody feel good, an' I set 'em up. An' 't 'appened, somehow, they wuz a right smart chance o' people in, jes' thet thar minit,--they gen'rally _is_ a right smart chance o' people in when a feller sets 'em up! an' they wuz powerful dry,--they gen'rally is dry, _then_; an' the long an' short o' 'tis, they cleaned me out. An' now, Bishop, I jes' feel nashuated with myself. Suah 's yo' bawn, Bishop, I'm gwine ter reform. 'Stop short, an' nevah go on again,' like thet thar clock in the song. I am, fur a fac', sir. I'm repentin' to a s'prisin' extent." "I certainly should be surprised if you _were_ repentant," the Bishop said, dryly; then, after a pause, "Well, Demming, I will help you this once again. I will buy you a ticket to Charleston." Some one had come up to the couple unperceived; this person spoke quickly: "Please let me do that, Bishop. Demming has afforded me enough entertainment for that." "You don' think no gre't shakes o' me, do you, Cunnel?" said Demming, looking at Talboys half humorously, yet with a shade of something else in his expression. "You poke fun at me all the time. Well, pleases you, an' don' hurt me, I reckon. Mahnin', Bishop; mahnin', Cunnel. I'll be at th' deppo." He waved his hand and shambled away. Both men looked after him. "I will see that he gets off," said Talboys. "I leave Aiken, myself, in the morning." "Leave Aiken?" the Bishop repeated. "But you will return?" "I don't expect to." "Why, I am sorry to hear that, Mr. Talboys,--truly sorry." The Bishop took the young man's hand and pressed it. "I am just beginning to know you; I may say, to like you, if you will permit the expression. Won't you walk in with me now, and say good-by to my daughter?" "Thanks, very much, but I have already made my adieux to Miss Louise." "Ah, yes, certainly," said the Bishop, absently. He was an absorbed clergyman; but he had sharp enough eyes, did he choose to use them; and Talboys's reddening cheeks told him a great deal. It cannot be said that he was sorry because his daughter had not looked kindly on this worldly and cynical young man's affection; but he was certainly sorry for the young man himself, and his parting grasp of the hand was warmer than it would have been but for that fleeting blush. "Poor fellow, poor fellow!" soliloquized the Bishop, when, after a few cordial words, they had parted. "He looks as though it had hurt him. I suppose that is the way we all take it. Well, time cures us; but it would scarcely do to tell him that, or how much harder it is to win a woman, find how precious she is, and then to lose her. Ah, well, time helps even that! 'For the strong years conquer us.'"