The negro sat upon his pile of corpses, and jogged along over the uneven streets, whistling as he went! It was late when he reached the graveyard, and the stars were beginning to peep out in the sky. It so happened that his was the only cart at that time depositing in the cemetery, and, accustomed as he was to such things, the man's hand trembled nervously as he moved about among the tall monuments, and at last stopped in an open space to deposit his load. He ceased whistling as he drew the bolt from his cart box and slid the contents out upon the ground. As they struck, there came a crash; a sound which fell fearfully upon the ear in that silent place, and the cartman righted the box hurriedly, and hastened round to see what was the matter. While peering into the dusky light, he felt a cold hand grasp him about the waist, and suddenly turning his head, saw that the last coffin he had taken, from being placed high, had split in its fall and burst open; and, oh, horror! its occupant was _creeping forth_ with its ghastly face peering up into his! With a mad yell the negro bounded to his cart. He leaped wildly in, but the cold hand clung close, and the sheeted figure sustained itself behind him. With shrieks of terror, which echoed fearfully in and out among the tombs, the man plied the lash to his affrighted horse, and they dashed away through the dim streets at a mad pace, the negro, with eyes starting from their sockets, and mouth wide open from fear, ever and anon turning his head, but always meeting that ghastly face close to his, and seeing the grave-clothes floating backward in the wind! Then the whip fell more heavily on the poor horse, and the screams of mortal fear rang out more startlingly clear; but the fearful scourge had rendered the streets almost deserted, and the ghostly form still clung to the affrighted negro, sometimes sinking as if from exhaustion, upon its knees, sometimes again drawing itself upon its feet; but holding ever on with the pale shroud floating backward in the wind.[B]

[Footnote B: A well authenticated fact.]

Suddenly, in turning a corner at a slightly relaxed speed, the cartman felt the hold upon his waist loosed, and turning, he found that his frightful passenger had vanished, when or how he knew not, but then and there he drew up his horse, and vowed never to take another cholera subject to the grave-yard, and so run the risk of having the ghost ride home with him; and he kept his vow.

Guly lay upon the bed in the gloomy room up stairs, himself suddenly smitten with the fearful disease. He was alone, his only attendant having gone out to procure medicine. His thoughts were dwelling upon the sad events of the day, when suddenly the door opening into the alley was swept back with a hasty hand, and the pale figure of Arthur, robed in a dampened shroud, sank down at Guly's bedside. The boy started wildly up in bed, with a natural pang of terror darting through his heart. But the next instant, the panting voice of Arthur, faint, but in its old accustomed tones, fell upon his ear, and Guly listened in mute wonder.

"Oh, Guly, oh, my brother, behold me thus strangely cast back from the grave which was yawning to receive me. I thank God I was spared the fearful doom of being buried alive! The coffin burst, the shock, the sudden rush of air restored me, and I found myself awakened from a fearful trance, sent back to life and earth. The lesson has been fearful. But my close approach to death may yet prove my salvation. Give me my clothes to robe myself while I talk to you."

Guly pointed silently to the clothes which hung upon a chair, where they had been placed never to be worn more. He also extended a bottle of cordial to Arthur, bidding him drink and be strengthened.

"Now, Guly," said the elder brother, as, once more robed, he bent above him, "Let me remain as one dead to you, I am going far from you; but I am a changed being; fear not for me, I shall commence a new life, and when I return, I shall not cause you to blush for me. Guly, farewell!"

Guly threw himself into the extended arms, completely overcome with his emotions.

"Oh! Arthur, I can scarcely realize this strange and sudden restoration; but now that God has given you back to me, do not leave me, do not desert me, stay with me; let us learn to be happy in our old love and our old ways."

"Nay, Guly, it may not be, I might but fall again. Let my former self--what I have been to you for the past few months--be remembered only as the dead; think of me but in the light of our early days, and in that light I will once more come back to you."

"And, Arthur, you will remember me with love and kindness, letting all the bitterness of the past drop into oblivion?"

"I will, I will--and you?"

"With love, always, with love, dear Arthur, shall this heart remember, shall this spirit enshrine you."

"God bless you! God keep you till we meet!"

There came one long, tender, tearful embrace, and once again the brothers parted; Arthur's footsteps falling gently on his ear, as he stole out through the arched alley way below. Thus they met, and thus they parted, in the same gloomy old room where they had experienced so much joy and so much sorrow at their first outset on life's troubled ocean.

CHAPTER XL.

"I may not love thee; For thou art far as yon star, above me."

Guly's attack had not been a severe one, and he was once more performing his usual duties.

One day as he sat writing, the dwarf with a chuckle made his way to his side, and stood there on his crooked legs panting heavily.

"Hih, hih, Monsieur, God spare you yet? God spares the good. Long time, Monsieur, since I saw you."

"Long time, indeed, Richard; I scarcely knew what had become of you; I am glad to see you among the living."

"Mean that, Monsieur?"

"Every word of it."

"Miss me, Monsieur?"

"Truly I have."

"Good!"

"And now where have you kept yourself so long, Richard?"

"In one little hovel down town; I no put my nose out de door, fear dey chuck me into ze ground. Bury folks dis summer sometimes all warm and limber. I want to live till I'm dead, so I keep down. Life's as sweet to me as others, though I am misshapen, and lame, and poor, and miserable to look upon. Hih, hih, Monsieur, yes, life is sweet."

"And how come you to be out to-day?"

"I strolled out for one walk, hih, hih, one walk for the health of my crutches and myself; and as I passed along, some one give me this note for you, hih, hih, Monsieur. Goodbye! I must be going, or the undertaker will have me stuck two feet in the ground before I get back. Goodbye.

Take care of yourself, hih!"

"Goodbye, Richard."

"Monsieur, you remember what you told me one day, long time ago?"

"What about, Richard?"

"About loving one another. Hih, hih, you forget?"

"No, Richard, never forgotten."

"Mean it yet?"

"Yes, in my heart I do."

"Hih, that's good--adieu!"

Turning up his one eye at Guly to give a parting glance the dwarf swung himself away, and the clatter of his crutches on the pavement came back with a mournful echo to the boy's ear.

Guly proceeded to read the note which had been handed him. It was simply an invitation for him to come to a certain number in an up-town street, and though neatly written, bore neither date nor signature.

Concluding it was merely a notice asking his attendance on some person sick, he having frequently performed such offices during the summer, at the hour designated Guly turned his steps toward the stated spot. It was a large house he found, standing somewhat back from the street, and presuming that it might be one of those wealthy homes which the devastating scourge had rendered desolate, leaving perhaps, one lonely sufferer, he advanced up the steps and gave the bell a gentle ring; a servant opened the door and ushered him into the drawing-room. Two ladies rose to greet him. One he recognized as the donor of his New Year's gift, and the other, could it be--his own brown-eyed Blanche?

Guly felt a wild thrill of joy sweep through his heart, as Blanche, grown, it was true, more womanly than when he saw her last, came forward with her white hand extended to greet him. Oh, how annihilated did all the past, in that one wild moment, become! and as he bent his lips to that loved hand, and his brown hair swept forward over his pale temples, shutting out the bright scene around him, he seemed, for the instant, once more sitting at the little table in the humble cottage of the brodeuse, listening to the trembling voice of the blind grandfather, and threading needles for Blanche.

"This," said the young girl, in her sweet musical voice, as Guly raised his head, "is our mutual friend, Mrs. Belmont; your acquaintanceship, I believe, however, dates from long ago."

Guly expressed his pleasure at the opportunity afforded of at last acknowledging his New Year's gift; and in a few moments they were seated together a happy trio, with the ease and cheerfulness of old friends talking over the events of the past. Mrs. Belmont explained, that she had met Blanche one day in the cemetery, kneeling by her grandfather's grave, just as she was on the eve of starting away on a long journey.

That, struck by her resemblance to her mother, she had addressed her, and soon gleaned her whole history; that then she had adopted her to her childless heart as her own, and hurried her away with her, not having time to allow her to communicate the change to any of her friends; hence the long and hitherto unexplained mystery and silence which had so distressed and harassed Guly. They had returned but a few evenings before, and to-day, Blanche, happening to catch sight of her old acquaintance the dwarf, in the street, had seized that opportunity of communicating to him their arrival, and treating him, she hoped, to a joyful surprise.

It was late before Guly parted from his kind friends, and when he did, it was with a sigh of regret for his own fate, though he could not help rejoicing in his generous heart at Blanche's good fortune. As the pretty and innocent brodeuse, he had hoped to win and wear her as his own; but as the adopted daughter of one of the wealthiest ladies in the Crescent City, accomplished, rich, polished, and refined, this Blanche he dared not, could not hope to win. It was a height to which he, a poor salaried clerk, could never aspire.

With a heavy heart he wended his way through the star-lit streets, dreaming of the days of the blind grandsire, and the little work-table at which he used to thread needles for Blanche, and wondering if those times ever would return.