"The words mean nothing," said Arthur; "they are stupid, but the things
that one sees! Remi made me see the shepherd with his flute, and the
fields, and the dogs, and the sheep, then the wolves, and I could even
hear the music that the shepherd was playing. Shall I sing the song to
you, Mamma?"

And he sang a little sad song in English.

This time Mrs. Milligan did really cry, for when she got up from her
seat, I saw that Arthur's cheeks were wet with her tears. Then she came
to me and, taking my hand in hers, pressed it gently.

"You are a good boy," she said.

The evening before I had been a little tramp, who had come on the barge
with his animals to amuse a sick child, but this lesson drew me apart
from the dogs and the monkey. I was, from now, a companion, almost a
friend, to the sick boy.

From that day there was a change in Mrs. Milligan's manner toward me,
and between Arthur and myself there grew a strong friendship. I never
once felt the difference in our positions; this may have been due to
Mrs. Milligan's kindness, for she often spoke to me as though I were her
child.

When the country was interesting we would go very slowly, but if the
landscape was dreary, the horses would trot quickly along the towing
path. When the sun went down the barge stopped; when the sun rose the
barge started on again.

If the evenings were damp we went into the little cabin and sat round a
bright fire, so that the sick boy should not feel chilly, and Mrs.
Milligan would read to us and show us pictures and tell us beautiful
stories.

Then, when the evenings were beautiful, I did my part. I would take my
harp and when the boat had stopped I would get off and go at a short
distance and sit behind a tree. Then, hidden by the branches, I played
and sang my best. On calm nights Arthur liked to hear the music without
being able to see who played. And when I played his favorite airs he
would call out "Encore," and I would play the piece over again.

That was a beautiful life for the country boy, who had sat by Mother
Barberin's fireside, and who had tramped the high roads with Signor
Vitalis. What a difference between the dish of boiled potatoes that my
poor foster mother had given me and the delicious tarts, jellies, and
creams that Mrs. Milligan's cook made! What a contrast between the long
tramps in the mud, the pouring rain, the scorching sun, trudging behind
Vitalis, ... and this ride on the beautiful barge!

The pastr