In the old days, you will remember, the Beau Brummel of a Southern steamboat was the captain. He was the pink of courtesy and gallantry, with all the pride of the gentleman of his day. The passengers were received into his cabin with the same hospitality he would have welcomed them ashore in his home. It was a distinction sought after, to eat at the table over which he presided. The lady to whom he offered his arm when dinner was announced was envied by the less fortunate, who must of necessity be content with the company of a less attractive escort.

Thus this master of the Ohio and Mississippi sidewheelers of forty or fifty years ago was to men, either at poker or in business, the soul of honor; to the young bucks the good fellow and manly; and, with apologies to St. Paul, all things to all women.... Such an officer of the old school was Sam L. Mead of the Spreading Eagle, who, while showing Nance first honors when upon her trip on his boat, told her of his experiences when quarantined by yellow fever.

"Who is that little priest with his robes tucked up, struggling through the street with the yelling dirty brat in his arms?" asked Captain Mead, who was watching the work of the relief corps, of the first passer-by.

"Little St. Jacques of the Streets," was the reply.

"He looks familiar," said the Captain; "what other name is he called?"

"Monsieur Picot, I believe," was the answer.

Monsieur l'AbbÉ Picot, traveling after a fashion purely his own, found himself in picturesque Louisiana at a time when the yellow fever was upon one of its infrequent but periodic outbreaks. For a time it seemed as if hell had been transferred. Suffering, sorrow, despair reigned in undisputed tyranny.... The AbbÉ had sought the state, so he told himself, to pursue a long deferred inquiry into the life of the ancestor who had willed him the home in which he lived in Oldmeadow. When he found anguish, hunger, misery, and death upon every hand he turned with eagerness to a more compassionate task.

Once at it, he toiled incessantly. If he ever rested, no one knew of it. At any time of day or night he always could be found taking food to some half-starved child; carrying upon his back to a more comfortable quarter some old man or woman; cooling the burning bodies of the fever-stricken; bringing the sympathy of tender words and the helpful pressure of ministering hands to the grief-stricken, or shriving some dying adherent of his own religion. His lips wore a great, hopeful smile as he turned from call to call upon his strength. In his eyes shone the light of a mighty faith. Indeed, he had the face of a saint—St. Francis, no doubt. He possessed all the preternatural ability of making his love felt which has ever belonged to those wondrous souls who give the greater gift. Some even thought that the touch of his strong rough hands had wrought things miraculous.... Had he not—but why tell of it to the unbelieving?

There are just two things of which I shall tell you that wisdom may be justified by her works. One was at Christmastide, the other some weeks later. To fully appreciate the first you must remember that everybody living where he was serving was destitute, needing the mere sustenances of life: bread, meat, shelter, water. When all ate no one had as much as he needed. There was just enough to keep them alive.

A few days before the happy time of holly, mystery, and good cheer, the AbbÉ, for the first time since he had begun his task, lost his smile. He seemed to be worried and depressed. He went about like a man carrying a weight almost greater than the strength of his heart. His co-workers felt it, and to the sufferers it seemed as if virtue had gone out of him. This continued until the morning of the twenty-fourth of December.

Had you been about that day you would have seen a weary old priest with shuffling reluctant steps leading an ugly, but good-humored, little ragged brown mare, for whom he showed unusual affection, through the streets. At the horse market where he sold her they secretly laughed at him, for did he not on parting whisper into her furry ears, shed tears upon her neck, and kiss her between her large brown eyes? Yet, strange as it may seem, as he turned into the street where grief was waiting for his compassionate hands, he wore the old-time smile and, beneath his breath, sang a queer outlandish tune. Nevertheless you still could not have fathomed the heart of St. Jacques of the Streets.

Early that night he again stole away and this time sought the garish stores all aglow with lights, tinsel, toys, and hurrying crowds. From place to place he went, dogging in and out of shops, gazing long into inviting windows, as if in search of some particular thing. At last he discovered a little Frenchman whose small business occupied a mere hole in the wall. The shop was given to Frenchy trifles of much glitter, and brilliant paints galore. After a deal of gesticulation, more rapid talking and bargaining, the shopman and the AbbÉ began making a thousand small bundles with something bright and happy in each. Then, leaving a clerk in charge, after piling the stuff into a hand-cart, they set off for the district upon which despair battened most hideously. Monsieur l'AbbÉ Picot was playing Santa Claus to hundreds of starved, eager little hearts.

When some disgruntled man saw fit to grumble about the waste of money, one of the nurses, a big, brawny Irish laborer, promptly knocked him down, accompanying his blow with the startling scriptural reference:

"An' did ye niver hear of the allibister box, ye Dutch pig?"

As I have written, it was a week later when they discovered that he had not eaten his portion of food for many days. Watching him, they found that he conveyed it secretly to certain children whose mothers and fathers had died of the fever. When they confronted him with his neglect of himself, he lied.

"Lied like a gentleman, this little St. Jacques," said the Captain, who knew.

It was no use to remonstrate. He came to give his life and he was giving it. Who would dare to say this was not his privilege? And he had remained faithfully until the blessed cold had come and hell had withdrawn her flaming despair.

That is how, my friends, Monsieur l'AbbÉ Picot proved his heart.