“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-bye, 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-bye!”—the schooner swang slowly off before the breeze—“good-bye!”
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!”