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“HENRY.”

I need not tell of the discussions that ensued. But it was concluded that it was best for all three that Priscilla and the marquis should be married, much to the disgust of Miss Nancy More, who thought that “she’d better be sayin’ her prayers. What good would it do to be a march-oness and all that when she was in her coffin?”

A wedding in prospect of death is more affecting than a funeral. Only Henry Stevens and Anna Poindexter were to be present. Priscilla’s mother had completed the arrangements, blinded by tears. I think she could have dressed Priscilla for her coffin with less suffering. The white dress looked so like a shroud, under those sunken cheeks as white as the dress! Once or twice Priscilla had drawn her mother’s head to her bosom and wept.

“Poor mother!” she would say; “so soon to be alone! But Antoine will be your son.”

Just as the dressing of the pale bride was completed, there came one of those sudden breakdowns to which a consumptive is liable. The doctor gave hope of but a few hours of life. When the marquis came he was heartbroken to see her lying there, so still, so white–dying. She took his hand. She beckoned to Anna and Henry Stevens to stand by her, and then, with tear-blinded eyes, the old minister married them for eternity!

Outside the door Priscilla’s class of Slabtown boys stood with some roses and hollyhocks they had thought to bring for her wedding or her funeral, they hardly knew which. They were all abashed at the idea of entering the house.

“You go in, Bill,” said one.

“No, you go. I can’t do it,” said Bill, scratching the gravel walk with his toes.

“I say somebody’s got to go,” said the first speaker.

“I’ll go,” said Boone Jones, the toughest of the party. “I ain’t afeerd,” he added huskily, as he took the flowers in his hand and knocked at the door.

But when Boone got in, and saw Priscilla lying there so white, he began to choke with a strange emotion. Priscilla tried to take the flowers from his hand, but Anna Poindexter took them. Priscilla tried to thank him, but she could only whisper his name.

“Boone—-” she said, and ceased from weakness.

But the lad did not wait. He burst into weeping, and bolted out the door.

“I say, boys,” he repeated, choking his sobs, “she’s just dyin’, and she said Boone–you know–and couldn’t say no more, and I couldn’t stand it.”

Feeling life ebbing, Priscilla took the hand of the marquis. Then, holding to the hand of D’Entremont, she beckoned Henry to come near. As he bent over her she whispered, looking significantly at the marquis, “Henry, God bless you, my noble-hearted friend!” And as Henry turned away, the marquis put his arm about him, but said nothing.

Priscilla’s nature abhorred anything dramatic in dying, or rather she did not think of effect at all; so she made no fine speeches. But when she had ceased to breathe, the old preacher said, “The bridegroom has come.”

She left an envelope for Henry. What it had in it no one but Henry ever knew. I have heard him say that it was one word, which became the key to all the happiness of his after life. Judging from the happiness he has in his home with Anna, his wife, it would not be hard to tell what the word was. The last time I was at his house I noticed that their eldest child was named Priscilla, and that the boy who came next was Antoine. Henry told me that Priscilla left a sort of “will” for the marquis, in which she asked him to do the Christian work that she would have liked to do. Nothing could have been wiser if she had sought only his own happiness, for in activity for others is the safety of a restless mind. He had made himself the special protector of the ten little Slabtown urchins.

Henry told me in how many ways, through Challeau, Lafort & Company, the marquis had contrived to contribute to his prosperity without offending his delicacy. He found himself possessed of practically unlimited credit through the guarantee which the great New Orleans banking house was always ready to give.

“What is that fine building?” I said, pointing to a picture on the wall.

“Oh! that is the ‘Hospice de Sainte Priscille,’ which Antoine has erected in Paris. People there call it ‘La Marquise.'”

“By the way,” said Priscilla’s mother, who sat by, “Antoine is coming to see us next month, and is to look after his Slabtown friends when he comes. They used to call him at first ‘Priscilla’s Frenchman.'”

And to this day Miss More declares that markusses is a thing she can’t no ways understand.

1871.