Both pairs enlivened their walk with conversation. Parson Jones descanted upon the doctrine he had mentioned, as illustrated in the perplexities of cotton-growing, and concluded that there would always be "a special providence again' cotton untell folks quits a-pressin' of it and haulin' of it on Sundays!"
"Je dis," said St.-Ange, in response, "I thing you is juz right. I believe, me, strong-strong in the improvidence, yes. You know my papa he hown a sugah-plantation, you know. 'Jules, me son,' he say one time to me, 'I goin' to make one baril sugah to fedge the moze high price in New Orleans.' Well, he take his bez baril sugah—I nevah see a so careful man like me papa always to make a so beautiful sugah et sirop. 'Jules, go at Father Pierre an' ged this lill pitcher fill with holy-water, an' tell him sen' his tin bucket, and I will make it fill with quitte.' I ged the holy-water; my papa sprinkle it over the baril, an' make one cross on the 'ead of the baril."
"Why, Jools," said Parson Jones, "that didn't do no good."
"Din do no good! Id broughd the so great value! You can strike me dead if thad baril sugah din fedge the more high cost than any other in the city. Parceque, the man what buy that baril sugah he make a mistake of one hundred pound"—falling back—"mais certainlee!"
"And you think that was growin' out of the holy-water?" asked the parson.
"Mais, what could make it else? Id could not be the quitte, because my papa keep the bucket, an' forget to sen' the quitte to Father Pierre."
Parson Jones was disappointed.
"Well, now, Jools, you know, I don't think that was right. I reckon you must be a plum Catholic."
M. St.-Ange shrugged. He would not deny his faith.
"I am a Catholique, mais"—brightening as he hoped to recommend himself anew—"not a good one."