* * * * *

‘And the opal-mine?’

’I meant, at first, to leave the Nibelungen Hoard alone; but time tames all things except the love of gold.  I went there; it was rich, but not inexhaustible.  You have all had proof that I am neither poor nor parsimonious; but neither am I extravagant.  I have all that I want—­a cottage at Newport, a neat house in the Rue de la Paix, stocks, and real estate.  The opal-mine started me; I have kept myself going very well ever since.

’Gentlemen, my tale is ended.  I am sorry it has proved so long, and am grateful to you all for the attentive hearing you have given me.  I have been constantly looking round expecting to detect some one of you falling into a gentle slumber; I therefore feel really flattered at finding you all still awake.’

‘But what became of the child that Percival was seeking?’ shouted one.

‘Did you ever find out any thing about Adele’s previous history?’ asked another.

‘And look here, Rideau, what did you—?’

’Gentlemen, take pity on me; while I have been spinning this long yarn, you have been smoking and imbibing; I am very willing to join you in both; but to-night I am tired out.  The next time we meet, I shall be delighted to tell you what particulars I learned on my return to New Orleans, relative to Adele and her poor orphan child; but no more to-night.’

THE RED, WHITE, AND BLUE.

  Red was the lightning’s flashing,
    And down through the driving rain,
  We saw the red eyes dashing
    Of the merciless midnight train;
  Soon many crowded together,
    Under the lamp’s red glow,
  But I saw one figure only—­
    Ah! why did I tremble so? 
  The eyes that gazed in the darkness
    After the midnight train,
  Are red with watching and weeping,
    For it brings none back again. 
  Clouds hang in the west like banners,
    Red banners of war unfurled,
  And the prairie sod is crimson
    With the best blood of the world.

  White faces are pressed to the window,
    Watching the sun go down,
  Looking out to the coming darkness,
    That covers the noisy town. 
  White are the hands, too, and quiet,
    Over the pulseless breast;
  No more will the vision of parting
    Disturb the white sleeper’s rest. 
  Over sleeper, and grave, and tombstone,
    Like a pitying mantle spread,
  The snow comes down in the night-time,
    With a shy and noiseless tread.

  Blue smoke rolls away on the north-wind,
    Blue skies grow dusk in the din,
  Blue waters look dark with the shadow
    That gathers the world within. 
  Rigid and blue are the fingers
    That clutch at the fading sky;
  Blue lips in their agony mutter: 
    ‘O God! let this cup pass by.’ 
  Blue eyes grow weary with watching;
    Strong hands with waiting to do;
  While brave hearts echo the watchword: 
    ‘Hurrah! for the Red, White, and Blue.’