The Brother Clerks; A Tale of New-Orleans.

respect and esteem for the boy even in that obdurate heart.

Mr. Delancey stepped down from his high desk, and began to traverse the space between it and the long windows. But every turn brought him nearer and nearer to the little bed-room door, and at last, certain that he was unobserved, he laid his hand upon the knob and slipped in.

If ever the merchant displayed his awkwardness, it was in a sick room; the knowledge of which fact, perhaps, made him so rare a frequenter of such places.

As he stopped at Guly's bedside, with his long fingers pressed down among the pillows, the boy opened his eyes, and looked up in his face with a smile, expecting to see Wilkins or Arthur. He was greatly surprised at seeing his employer, but immediately extended his hand and said:

'Is it possible 'tis you, Mr. Delancey? This is an unexpected pleasure.'

Mr. Delancey took the proffered hand in his, held it loosely for a moment in his bony fingers, as if unaccustomed to holding friendly hands, then let it drop back again upon the bed-clothes.

'Why is my presence so unexpected? Don't you suppose I ever look in on sick clerks?'

'I certainly hope so, sir; I scarcely expected it in my case; but I am very happy to be disappointed-sit down sir?'

The merchant seated himself, and said:

'So you got in a row last night.'

'In trouble, sir; most unfortunately. I hope that it is the last case of the kind.'

'Yes, bad to have your place empty-want all my men at their posts. Get about as soon as you can. Be up to-morrow, I 'spose?'

'Yes, sir, God willing.'

'God willing! Do you always put that in?' said Mr. Delancey, half rising from his chair, then reseating himself.

'Yes, sir, always.'

The merchant sat for a moment, with his cold eye fixed on his earnest face.

'Invariably you say that, eh?'

'Invariably, sir.'

'Humph! I don't!' returned the other, rising abruptly from the chair, and, without another word, he slipped out of the little door as cautiously as he had entered, and again took his seat at his desk.

The day wore on with an occasional visit from Arthur, a frequent one from Wilkins, and numerous inquiries sent by all the clerks, who could not help but feel an interest in the young sufferer.

By the increased darkness of the room, Guly knew the day must be most gone, and he lay looking upon the little table where one night he had seen Wilkins writing, with the quadroon standing behind his chair-that night which he had remembered so distinctly and pondered on so much.

As he lay musing upon that event, his attention was attracted by a singular noise outside his door, and the next moment it was thrown open, and to Guly's utter astonishment the dwarf swung himself in upon his long crutches, with Wilkins, looking like a giant, walking smilingly behind him.

'Here's a friend that's true to you, Guly; he misses you, you see, as well as the rest of us.'

'Hih! hih! Monsieur,' chuckled the little man, reaching up and catching hold of Guly's fingers; 'I have seen you nowhere to-day; I think you very sick or very dead. I get no picayune to-day, no bean soup. Hih! hih! Monsieur, I miss you very much.'

'You are kind, to come and see me, my poor friend. It seems very natural to see your face. You are welcome.'

'Me welcome?' squeaked the dwarf, climbing up with much difficulty into the chair Mr. Delancey had so recently left; 'me welcome, Monsieur! Hih! that's mor'n has been said to me these many years-hih! poor deformed little devil that I am!'

Guly heard a sound, a strange sound, something between a schoolboy snivel and a sob, and looking up, to his amazement saw a bright tear rolling down his visitor's wrinkled cheek, and his one eye, seeming to lie out farther on his face then ever, was glistening with more.

'You have never told me your name,' said Guly, hoping to divert his attention.

'No,'cause I never thort you cared to know it,' returned the other, wiping his eye on the cuff of his coat. 'The boys call me King Richard, because, as they say, he was stoop-shouldered like me, Monsieur. They daren't exactly call me humped for fear of my crutches, hih! hih! You can call me Richard, or Dick, or what you choose.'

'You musn't talk too much to Monsieur,' said Wilkins, kindly; 'he is too ill to hear much conversation-hurts his head.'

'Hih! no, I won't hurt him. A picayune, Monsieur: I've had no bean soup, to-day. Pauvre Richard!'

Wilkins dropped a piece of silver in the claw-like hand, and went back into the store.

The dwarf sat rubbing the dime on his sleeve, brightening it, and looking curiously at it with his one eye, as if to assure himself it was good-then disposed of it somewhere about his person.

'Are you hungry, Richard?' asked the boy, eyeing him pityingly.

'Oui, Monsieur, hungry and poor and friendless. Oh, Lord! but I've got a dime to buy bread now, hih! hih! hih!'

'I am your friend, Richard; never go hungry when you are destitute. I am not rich, but I always hope to be able to give you a piece of bread, and you musn't call yourself friendless ever again.'

The dwarf hitched himself round on his chair, and fixed his great raw-looking eye inquisitively on the gentle face looking upon him.

'Friend to me, Monsieur, such a horrid little ape as me? Hih! hih! can't think that.'

'Don't call yourself such names, Richard. The hand that made me, made you; and He has commanded us to love one another,' said the boy, sweetly.

'And you can love me, you? Hih! no, no, no, I wasn't born to be loved, only to be kicked round the world like a football while I live, and when I die to be kicked into a pauper's grave. Hard lot! deformed, friendless, wretched, poor. Nothing to love, no one to love me, hih! wonder what I was born for. Monsieur, what hurt you?'

Guly smiled at the sudden transition in the dwarf's manner, and replied briefly that he had been hurt with broken glass.

'Hih! that's bad. I must get down and go away-make you talk too much-'hurt your head.' Always hurt people's heads, I do-that part where their eyes are. Adieu, Monsieur.'

The dwarf, after some labor, reached the floor, and succeeded in tucking a crutch under either arm.

'Hope you'll get well, Monsieur.'

'Be round to-morrow I hope, Richard; thank you.'

'Hope so. Adieu.'

'Adieu.'

He swung away, and reached the door, but hobbled back to the bed again, and raising his red, skinny fingers, took Guly's hand in his.

'You meant what you said, Monsieur, about loving one another?'

'Yes. Truly so, Richard.'

'And I may think of you as loving even me?'

'As loving you, Richard. As loving you for one of the Great God's cherished works, sent here expressly to call forth our love, and awaken the dormant sympathies of our nature.'

'May that Great God, bless you, Monsieur. Hih! hih! Adieu.'

Once more he gained the door, and this time it closed behind him, shutting him out. And Guly fell asleep, with the earnest blessing of the poor deformed one brightening his dreams, and the holy words, 'Love ye one another,' ringing sweetly through his heart.

CHAPTER XXVII.