ter in the
world--the Opera Comique. I am so fond of the bygone school of music,
Father Benwell--the flowing graceful delicious melodies of the composers
who followed Mozart. One can only enjoy that music in Paris. Would you
believe that I waited a week to hear Nicolo's delightful Joconde for the
second time. I was almost the only young man in the stalls. All round
me were the old men who remembered the first performances of the
opera, beating time with their wrinkled hands to the tunes which were
associated with the happiest days of their lives. What's that I hear? My
dog! I was obliged to leave him here, and he knows I have come back!"

He flew to the door and called down the stairs to have the dog set
free. The spaniel rushed into the room and leaped into his master's
outstretched arms. Winterfield returned his caresses, and kisses him as
tenderly as a woman might have kissed her pet.

"Dear old fellow! it's a shame to have left you--I won't do it again.
Father Benwell, have you many friends who would be as glad to see you as
_this_ friend? I haven't one. And there are fools who talk of a dog as
an inferior being to ourselves! _This_ creature's faithful love is mine,
do what I may. I might be disgraced in the estimation of every human
creature I know, and he would be as true to me as ever. And look at his
physical qualities. What an ugly thing, for instance--I won't say your
ear--I will say, my ear is; crumpled and wrinkled and naked. Look at the
beautiful silky covering of _his_ ear! What are our senses of smelling
and hearing compared to his? We are proud of our reason. Could we find
our way back, if they shut us up in a basket, and took us to a strange
place away from home? If we both want to run downstairs in a hurry,
which of us is securest against breaking his neck--I on my poor two
legs, or he on his four? Who is the happy mortal who goes to bed without
unbuttoning, and gets up again without buttoning? Here he is, on my lap,
knowing I am talking about him, and too fond of me to say to himself,
'What a fool my master is!'"

Father Benwell listened to this rhapsody--so characteristic of the
childish simplicity of the man--with an inward sense of impatience,
which never once showed itself on the smiling surface of his face.

He had decided not to mention the papers in his pocket until some
circumstance occurred which might appear to remind him naturally that
he had such things about him. If he showed any anxie