You will leave it with me, Joseph." "No, no," said Frowenfeld, "I thank you, but--" "Ah! my dear boy, thank me not; I cannot help these impulses; I belong to a warm-hearted race.

But"-- he drew back in his chair sidewise and made great pretence of frowning--"you decline the offices of that precious possession, a Creole friend ?" "I only decline to be shielded by a fiction." "Ah-h!" said Agricola, further nettling his victim by a gaze of stagy admiration.

"'_Sans peur et sans reproche_'-- and yet you disappoint me.
Is it for naught, that I have sallied forth from home, drawing the curtains of my carriage to shield me from the gazing crowd?
It was to rescue my friend--my vicar--my coadjutor--my son--from the laughs and finger-points of the vulgar mass.

H-I might as well have stayed at home--or better, for my peculiar position to-day rather requires me to keep in--" "No, citizen," said Frowenfeld, laying his hand upon Agricola's arm, "I trust it is not in vain that you have come out.

There _is_ a man in trouble whom only you can deliver." The old man began to swell with complacency.
"H-why, really--" "_He_, Citizen, is truly of your kind--" "He must be delivered, Professor Frowenfeld--" "He is a native Louisianian, not only by accident of birth but by sentiment and intention," said Frowenfeld.
The old man smiled a benign delight, but the apothecary now had the upper hand, and would not hear him speak.
"His aspirations," continued the speaker, "his indignations--mount with his people's.