had a cool taste, like a fruit, at the top of his throat; and at last, in

complete abstraction, he began to sing. The Doctor had but one air--,

'Malbrouck s'en va-t-en guerre;' even with that he was on terms of mere

politeness; and his musical exploits were always reserved for moments

when he was alone and entirely happy.

He was recalled to earth rudely by a pained expression on the boy's face.

'What do you think of my singing?' he inquired, stopping in the middle of

a note; and then, after he had waited some little while and received no

answer, 'What do you think of my singing?' he repeated, imperiously.

'I do not like it,' faltered Jean-Marie.

'Oh, come!' cried the Doctor. 'Possibly you are a performer yourself?'

'I sing better than that,' replied the boy.

The Doctor eyed him for some seconds in stupefaction. He was aware that

he was angry, and blushed for himself in consequence, which made him

angrier. 'If this is how you address your master!' he said at last, with

a shrug and a flourish of his arms.

'I do not speak to him at all,' returned the boy. 'I do not like him.'

'Then you like me?' snapped Doctor Desprez, with unusual eagerness.

'I do not know,' answered Jean-Marie.

The Doctor rose. 'I shall wish you a good morning,' he said. 'You are

too much for me. Perhaps you have blood in your veins, perhaps celestial

ichor, or perhaps you circulate nothing more gross than respirable air;

but of one thing I am inexpugnably assured:--that you are no human being.

No, boy'--shaking his stick at him--'you are not a human being. Write,

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