Good-bye.' Then he start towards the door, but stumble, for he look sick.

'Give me a drink,' he say, and begin to cough a little--a queer sort of rattle.

Florian give him big drink, and he toss it off-whiff! 'Thank you,' he say, and start again, and we see him walk away over the hill ver' slow--an' he never come back.

But every year there come from New York a box of flowers, and every year P'tite Louison send him a 'Merci, Charles, mille fois.

Dieu to garde.' It is so every year for twenty-five year." "Where is he now ?" asked Medallion.
Isidore shook his head, then lifted his eyes religiously.