Suddenly, a trembling hand was laid on Guly's arm, and a supplicating voice murmured humbly: "Un picayune, Monsieur; in pity, Monsieur, one picayune to buy me bread."

By the light of a street lamp, Guly saw a pale and wrinkled face, in which deep lines of grief or misfortune were deeply traced, raised pleadingly toward him. The face was so old, yet so very much lower than himself, that he at first thought the speaker must be in a sitting posture there, beneath the lamp. But a second glance showed to his wondering gaze the veriest dwarf his eyes had ever fallen upon. In height, the figure was not taller than a child of four years; yet the head was very large, the face possessed of its full growth of cunning and experience, the shoulders broad, but painfully humped, and the whole upper portion of the body immensely too large for the short and slender limbs, which served for its support. And yet, as if all this wretched deformity were not enough, one leg was shorter than the other, and the foot was a club one. To assist him in walking, he carried a pair of crutches, apparently much too long for him, which raised his spindle arms in their loose sockets, and rendered the hump more horrible. When he moved, his crutches spread out on either side of him, as he swung along between them, taking up a vast deal of room without any apparent necessity. His coat had apparently been the property of some great man of the previous century, for it was braided and embroidered, and trimmed to an extent rarely seen in the present age; and the immense holes in the elbows, and the tatters in the skirt, laughed heartily at the rusty trimmings which it bore. It was so long and large too, that it almost precluded the necessity of any other clothes, for it quite enveloped his whole person, as he swung along between his crutches, dragged on the ground behind like the train of a lady's dress. His pantaloons had also once belonged to some full grown specimen of humanity, but had been torn off to suit the dimensions of the present owner--and, altogether, the appearance of this miserable object, with his one blind eye, and the cunning leer in the other, was calculated to excite both pity and disgust. The brothers looked upon him for a moment in mute astonishment, until again startled by that squeaking, supplicating voice--"Un picayune, Monsieur--one picayune to buy me bread!"

Guly took a dime from his purse, and dropped it into the ragged cap which the beggar extended, while he held his crutches by pressing his arms close to his body. As the piece dropped into its ragged receptacle, he shook it up from the greasy folds, and tipped his left eye down to look upon it, not unlike a vulture glancing down at its prey. After eyeing it a moment, he held the cap toward Arthur, as if expecting something from that quarter.

Arthur had already searched every pocket for the change, which he felt certain was there the day before; but, to his utter astonishment, it was all gone, together with a very beautiful portemonnaie his mother had given him when he left her, and in which, the day before, he had placed two ten dollar bills, for the purpose of sending home when he should write.

He knew he could not have spent it all in yesterday's rout, and the conviction forced itself painfully upon his mind that he had been robbed.

As the mendicant held forth his cap, he shook his head, and showed his empty hands, at which movement the old man raised his eyebrows inquisitively, and muttered a most disagreeable and chuckling "Hih! hih!

hih! hih!" He then picked out the dime with trembling fingers, and slipped it quickly into some unseen deposit about his person; then, with one more lift of his grey brows, adjusted his crutches, and swung himself away.

The brothers gazed after the receding figure, until the mist entirely obscured it, and the skirts of the long coat could no longer be heard trailing on the pavement; then, again linking their arms, proceeded on their way.

Although Guly dwelt wonderingly upon the incident they had just met with, Arthur maintained a moody silence; nor could aught that his brother said, direct his thoughts from the new course the recent event had turned them upon.

The time had been, when the loss he had met with would have been regarded as one of no importance whatever; but he felt now, and deeply felt, that it was more than he could afford to spend foolishly, more than even his generous impulses would have allowed him to charitably dispose of, and more by far than he could patiently submit to be defrauded of. As he thought thus, his good resolutions of the morning in a measure melted away before his indignant resentment, and vague plans were floating through his mind, as to how he might and would recover it, the bearing he should feel called upon to assume when next he met Mr.

Clinton, &c., &c. To tell Guly of the loss he had sustained, after some reflection, he decided was out of the question. True, he had been gentle and forbearing with regard to all that had passed, but he would not reveal this new discovery to him--perhaps dreading more the rebuking silence of those loving lips, than the stormy reproaches he might have met with from another source.

Guly had seen that nothing had been bestowed upon the beggar by his brother; but he forbore to question him, lest it should lead them upon a subject unpleasant to both; and thus grew up the first concealment between those hitherto confiding hearts.

Reaching the square, they passed through the gate, and turned into a grassy walk, to enjoy ever so small a glimpse of verdant country scenes.

Strolling on, they came suddenly upon a figure reclining at full length upon a bench, and smoking a cigar. As they approached, there was something in the man's appearance that seemed to startle Arthur, for he clutched his brother's arm closer, and turned abruptly to the left; but he was too late to pass unperceived, for, with a bound, the reclining figure gained its feet, and in an instant more Arthur's hand received a cordial grasp, while Mr. Clinton, as nicely dressed, as neatly curled, and as delicately perfumed as ever, stood before him.

CHAPTER XII.

"How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds Makes ill deeds done!"

"My dear fellow, how glad I am to meet you!" cried Clinton, cordially extending his hand in a manner which permitted the diamond on his finger to catch the light, in what he thought a most bewildering glitter.

Arthur would have shunned him, as his new resolutions and good genius prompted him to do; but there was that graceful form half-bent for his greeting, there was that smiling face, looking its hearty "How are you?"

there was the social yet searching glance of that glittering eye, all saying, "Shake hands with me," and Arthur did.

"Mr. Clinton, how do you do?"

"Well, my boy, well; really hope you've got over the effects of your Carrolton ride. By-the-by, Quirk got you into that muss, not I, by Jove!

You were inclined to be a little huffy this morning; however you were excusable--that's all forgotten. You'll do me justice now--there, give me your hand again, and tell me you consider me one of you."

Arthur's generous heart could not withstand this merry, good-humored, yet apparently sincere appeal, and the hand was again given. He thought, too, that he might have been unjust in his reflections about Clinton, for he had met him only by chance on his way to Carrolton, and in truth he had urged him to no wrong, but had only joined him in what he was already doing. Then, had he not kindly been the means of liberating him from the watch-house, when he might otherwise have been left to meet the shame and expense of a public trial? Verily, he had much for which to be grateful to Mr. Clinton, and with one of those sudden impulses, natural to a hasty temper and impetuous spirit, he sought instantly to make amends for what now seemed the unjust and unkindly sentiments he had all day been entertaining toward his new friend.

"Mr. Clinton, I fear I have blamed you most wrongfully. However, let all this, as you say, be forgotten."

"That's it, my boy, I knew I wasn't mistaken in you. You've just the heart there, in your bosom, that I was sure you had when I first saw you. Believe me, I am proud to know that heart."

Arthur was but human, and, like all humanity, the gilded pill of flattery was swallowed without the aid of sweetmeats. He could not but remember, with a great deal of compunction, the great wrong he had, as he felt, done Clinton in harboring towards him such unkindly thoughts.

"Oh, Mr. Clinton, pray pardon my neglect!" said he, suddenly turning toward that young gentleman. "Allow me to make you acquainted with my brother. Gulian--Mr. Clinton."

Guly bowed distantly. Those young eyes had seen deeper into the heart before him, in the few minutes that he had been an observer of its impulses, than Arthur had seen, or at least decided upon, in forty-eight hours of mingled acquaintanceship and reflection. True, the boy knew but little of the world; but there are some, and they are not the worldly and suspicious, but the pure-minded and gentle, that shrink intuitively from a polluting presence, scarce knowing from what they shrink. There was much in Mr. Clinton which Guly saw to dread, as a companion for his brother; and, at their first recognition, he was assured it was one of Arthur's yesterday acquaintances, and felt a pang of disappointment at not seeing him differently received by his brother.

"Where are you strolling?" asked Mr. Clinton, breaking a pause, which had followed Guly's cool reception of himself.

"Merely out for a walk," returned Arthur; "it's only before and after business hours, you know, that we have time for recreation."

"True, true," replied the other, stroking his chin, and speaking in a commiserating tone. "Ah, that must be terribly dull business, for young chaps like you. I always pity a clerk."

"Indeed, sir," said Guly, "we neither deserve nor need pity; we have everything to make us contented and happy in our new situation, and appreciate it, I assure you."

Mr. Clinton glanced for an instant keenly at the speaker, then answered, with a light laugh:--

"Yes, yes, just so; I didn't apply my remark beyond myself; in fact, it's something _I_ never could stand."

"We have extended our walk as far as we intended for to-night, have we not, brother? Mr. Clinton, we bid you good evening," said Guly, as they, for the third time, gained the gate by which they had entered the square.

Mr. Clinton looked up in astonishment.

"No! you don't mean to leave so? Come, let's just step over to Royal-street, and take a glass of soda-water. You will find it so refreshing."

Poor Arthur "felt his pockets bare," and was about to refuse, when Mr.

Clinton slipped a hand through his arm, and drew him with him, saying, as he did so:--

"You know it's _my_ treat this time, Pratt. Don't refuse a friend."

As Arthur moved away with him, Guly determined not to leave his side for an instant, while in the presence of so dangerous a companion, and though his heart went down as he saw Arthur thus forgeting all his new-formed resolutions, yet he hoped for the best, and went with him resolutely.

They entered a richly ornamented saloon, where all that could please the palate or tickle the taste was most temptingly displayed; and Clinton, tossing a gold half-eagle upon the marble counter, called for "a few choice titbits and a bottle of wine."

As the last desideratum was named, Guly glanced anxiously toward his brother, but Arthur's eye was turned another way, and when the collation was brought he sat readily down at the table by Clinton's side. Guly did not wish to appear ill-bred or impolite, and he accepted the hearty invitation of his new acquaintance to "sit by," with as good a grace as he could command. Of the wine, however, he could not be prevailed upon to touch a drop--though he did not fail to perceive the sneer that curled Mr. Clinton's thin lip at his refusal.

"You don't mean to say," said the last mentioned gentleman, half-pityingly, "that you expect to remain in New-Orleans any length of time without learning to drink wine?"

"I shall never touch a drop, sir, unless absolutely necessary in a case of sickness."

"Bah! anybody would know you were from the North, my dear fellow, just by that speech. Nobody hesitates to drink wine here, unless those who are too poor to pay for it"--and the speaker glanced keenly, but slyly, at Guly's face, then added: "Why, it's impossible here to avoid drinking, even if you would. A young man calls upon a lady, and the first thing she thinks of offering him after a seat is a glass of wine.

It is always there on the sideboard, and to refuse would be an act of utter impoliteness. What could you do in such a case, my boy, eh?"

"I should, I hope, have sufficient courage to tell the young lady I never drank, and must be excused; and if she liked me the less for it, I would bear in mind that if such an act deprived me of her good will, her good will certainly was not worth retaining."

"I should like to see you tried once, with a pretty girl in the case,"

returned Clinton, gulping down a second glass.

"I cannot wonder at the depraved state of society in this city," said Guly, earnestly, "when woman, who should be the first to frown upon and discountenance such practices, not only is the tempter, but the hearty partaker of them. I am certain if the other sex were more strict--would positively refuse to attend places of amusement on Sabbath evenings, would refrain utterly from drinking wine themselves, and offering it to others--there would be a great change here for the better. Woman little thinks how much of man's depravity can be traced back to be laid upon her shoulders."

"Nonsense!" said Clinton, with a short laugh. "Women, you'll find when you've been here long enough, have less to do with it than rain-water full of wriggle-tails, as they call those young animals that fill our cisterns in summer time, and the no less disagreeable--to one not a native here--muddy water from the river as a beverage. One is absolutely forced to 'tip the goblet red,' in order to have something palatable to rinse down his food. Woman, indeed! Poh! come, have a glass, and be social."