sure in life," continued the Frenchman, with a bow, "is
to talk a little to a being who is capable of understanding you. At
present we have no one here, now that that old actor's dead. Ah! there
was a man who was rebellion incarnate! He made rebellion as other men
make money, 'c'etait son metier'; when he was no longer capable of active
revolution, he made it getting drunk. At the last this was his only way
of protesting against Society. An interesting personality, 'je le
regrette beaucoup'. But, as you see, he died in great distress, without
a soul to wave him farewell, because as you can well understand,
monsieur, I don't count myself. He died drunk. 'C'etait un homme'!"

Shelton had continued staring kindly at the little man; the barber added
hastily:

"It's difficult to make an end like that one has moments of weakness."

"Yes," assented Shelton, "one has indeed."

The little barber looked at him with cynical discretion.

"Oh!" he said, "it 's to the destitute that such things are important.
When one has money, all these matters--"

He shrugged his shoulders. A smile had lodged amongst his crow's-feet;
he waved his hand as though to end the subject.

A sense of having been exposed came over Shelton.

"You think, then," said he, "that discontent is peculiar to the
destitute?"

"Monsieur," replied the little barber, "a plutocrat knows too well that
if he mixes in that 'galere' there 's not a dog in the streets more lost
than he."

Shelton rose.

"The rain is over. I hope you 'll soon be better; perhaps you 'll accept
this in memory of that old actor," and he slipped a sovereign into the
little Frenchman's hand.

The latter bowed.

"Whenever you are passing, monsieur," he said eagerly, "I shall be
charmed to see you."

And Shelton walked away. "'Not a dog in the streets more lost,'" thought
he; "now what did he mean by that?"

Something of that "lost dog" feeling had gripped his spirit. Another
month of waiting would kill all the savour of anticipation, might even
kill his love. In the excitement of his senses and his nerves, caused by
this strain of waiting, everything seemed too vivid; all was beyond life
size; like Art--whose truths; too strong for daily use, are thus,
unpopular with healthy people. As will the, bones in a worn face, the
spirit underlying things had reached the surface; the meanness and
intolerable measure of hard facts, were too apparent. Some craving for
help, some