an opiate on the inmates of the room. The old man in his arm-chair, the flies on the ceiling, the canaries in their cage, all slumbered; the grandfather’s clock with its tick-tack, a sunbeam streaming through the shutters with its myriads of dancing particles, alone vivifying the room. Amidst the universal drowsiness the child continues her reading with solemn persistence: ‘Immed-i-ate-ly—two—lions—rushed—on—her—and—de- vour-ed—her.’ I entered the room at this crisis. The raging lions could hardly have caused a greater flutter in the household. The little blue girl dropped her book with a shriek, the canaries and flies woke up, the clock struck, the old man jumped up with a start, quite dazed. I stood on the threshold somewhat embarrassed, but, summoning up courage, shouted:

‘Good day, my friend! I’m the friend of Maurice.’

Maurice acted as a talisman.

The old man flew towards me with open arms, wrung my hands, and rushed about the room, distractedly crying, ‘Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!’

His every wrinkle beamed. His face was crimson with excitement. He stammered:

‘Oh, sir! Oh, sir!’

Then he rushed to the door, crying:

‘Come, Mamma! quick, Mamma!’

A door in the corridor opened. A pit-a-pat was heard, and Mamma entered.

How sweetly pathetic was the scene! The little old lady in a mutch-cap and a pale brown carmelite dress, carrying an embroidered handkerchief. And how much alike they were! The resemblance was striking. A little change of dress, a cap or so, and grandpa might be taken for grandma, only grandma had many more tear-worn wrinkles. Each had a little orphan girl as protectress—age guarded by infancy. On entering, grandma made me a low curtsy, as in the days of chivalry, but the impatient old man cut short ceremony:

‘Mamma, this is the friend of Maurice.’

She quivered like an aspen-leaf, tears ran down her cheeks, she dropped her handkerchief, her face reddened even more than his. The old folks have only one drop of blood in their veins, yet the least excitement crimsons their faces all over.

‘Quick, quick! a chair for the visitor,’ said the old lady to her little blue girl.

‘Open the shutters,’ said the old man to his.

Then each taking one of my hands, they toddled with me to the window to survey their guest. The arm- chairs were brought forward, I was installed on a camp-stool between them, the children stood behind, and the inquisition began.

‘How is he? How does he spend his time? Why doesn’t he come to see us? Is he quite happy?’

And so they plied me with questions for nearly an hour.

I bore up bravely, told them all I knew, inventing, embellishing at a pinch.

‘The wall-paper, madame? It’s a lovely cerulean blue, with festoons of roses.’

‘Is it really?’—adding, as she turned to Papa, ‘Isn’t he a fine fellow?’

‘Yes, yes, a fine, fine, fellow!’