You los' five hondred dollar'-- 'twas me fault." "No, it wa'n't, Jools." "_Mais_, it was!" "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-by, 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-by!"-- the schooner swang slowly off before the breeze--"good-by!" 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'.