"It is. And that shows that one's life is looked out for, when he ain't looking out for it himself. In fact, any of these stools here will float you, sir, should the boat hit a snag, and go down in the dark. But, since you want one in your room, pray take this one," handing it to him. "I think I can recommend this one; the tin part," rapping it with his knuckles, "seems so perfect--sounds so very hollow." "Sure it's _quite_ perfect, though?" Then, anxiously putting on his spectacles, he scrutinized it pretty closely--"well soldered? quite tight?" "I should say so, sir; though, indeed, as I said, I never use this sort of thing, myself. Still, I think that in case of a wreck, barring sharp-pointed timbers, you could have confidence in that stool for a special providence." "Then, good-night, good-night; and Providence have both of us in its good keeping." "Be sure it will," eying the old man with sympathy, as for the moment he stood, money-belt in hand, and life-preserver under arm, "be sure it will, sir, since in Providence, as in man, you and I equally put trust. But, bless me, we are being left in the dark here. Pah! what a smell, too." "Ah, my way now," cried the old man, peering before him, "where lies my way to my state-room?" "I have indifferent eyes, and will show you; but, first, for the good of all lungs, let me extinguish this lamp." The next moment, the waning light expired, and with it the waning flames of the horned altar, and the waning halo round the robed man's brow; while in the darkness which ensued, the cosmopolitan kindly led the old man away. Something further may follow of this Masquerade.