stood side by side, iron in hand, bending over the long, spotless tables piled with linen. It was a touch of Parisian life, small in itself, but subtle and suggestive as the premonition of spring awakened by the twittering of the sparrows in the tall, leafless trees, and the throbbing song of a caged canary that floated down from a window above a shop. It was suggestive of that Parisian life that is as restless as the sea, as uncontrollable, as possessed of hidden currents. Involuntarily the boy paused and glanced up at the bird in its cage--the bird that, regardless of the garden of greenstuffs pushed through its bars, was pouring forth its heart to the pale sun in a frenzy of worship. "How strange that is!" he said. "If I were a bird and saw the great sky, knowing myself imprisoned, I should beat my life out against my cage." The Irishman looked down upon him. "I wonder!" he said, slowly. The quick, gray eyes flashed up to his. "You doubt it?" "I don't know! 'On my soul, I don't know!" "Would you not beat your life out against a cage?" "I wonder that too! I'd like to think I would, but--" "You imagine you would hesitate? You think you would shrink?" "I don't know! Human nature is so damnably patient. Come along! here's the place we're looking for." He drew the boy across the road to the doorway of a little café, over the door of which hung the somewhat pretentious sign Maison Gustav. The Maison Gustav was scarcely a more appetizing place than the Hôtel Railleux. One-half of its interior was partitioned off and filled with long tables, at which, earlier in the day, workmen were served with déjeuner, while the other and smaller portion, reserved for more fastidious guests, was fitted with a counter, ranged with fruit and cakes, and with half a dozen round marble-topped tables, provided with chairs. This more refined portion of the café was empty of customers as the two entered. With the ease and decision of an habitué, the Irishman chose the table nearest to the counter, and presently a woman appeared from some inner region, and, approaching her customers, eyed them with that mixture of shrewd observation and polite welcome that belongs to the Frenchwoman who follows the ways of commerce. "Good-day, messieurs!" She inclined her head to one side like a plump and speculative bird, and her hands began mechanically to smooth her black alpaca apron. "Good-day, madame!" The Irishman rose and took off his hat with a flourish that was essentially flattering. The bright little eyes of the Parisienne sparkled, and her round face relaxed into the inevitable smile. 'What could she have the pleasure of offering monsieur? It was late, but she had an excellent ragoût, now a little cold, perhaps, but capable in an instant--' The stranger put up his hand. "Madame, we
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