y mind, I do not
know. It has been one of the psychological puzzles of my life.

"A man's head, master," said I; "I can't describe it, but I think I
could draw it."

"Draw it?" he echoed incredulously.

"Yes, Master."

He pulled a stump of pencil from his pocket and threw it to me. I felt
luminously certain I could draw the head. A curious exaltation filled me
as I sat at a corner of the table before a flattened-out piece of paper
that had wrapped up tea. Paragot stood over me, as I drew.

"_Nom de Dieu de nom de Dieu!_" cried he. "It is Gian Bellini's Doge
Loredano. But what made you remember that picture, and how in the name
of Board schools could you manage to draw it?"

He walked swiftly up and down the room.

"_Nom de Dieu de nom de Dieu!_"

"I used to draw horses and men on my slate at school," said I modestly.

Paragot filled his porcelain pipe and walked about strangely excited.
Suddenly he stopped.

"My little Asticot," said he, "you had better go down and help Mrs.
Housekeeper to wash up the dirty plates and dishes, for your soul's
sake."

What my soul had to do with greasy crockery I could not in the least
fathom; but the next morning Paragot gave me a drawing lesson. It would
be false modesty for me to say that I did not show talent, since the
making of pictures is the means whereby I earn my living at the present
moment. The gift once discovered, I exercised it in and out of season.

"My son," said Paragot, when I showed him a sketch of Mrs. Housekeeper
as she lay on the scullery floor one Saturday night, unable to go any
one of her several ways, "I am afraid you are an artist. Do you know
what an artist is?"

I didn't. He pronounced the word in tones of such deep melancholy that I
felt it must denote something particularly depraved.

"It is the man who has the power of doing up his soul in whitey-brown
paper parcels and selling them at three halfpence apiece."

This was at breakfast one morning while he was chipping an egg. Only two
eggs furnished forth our repast, and I was already deep in mine. He
scooped off the top of the shell, regarded it for a second and then rose
with the egg and went to the window.

"Since you have wings you had better fly," said he, and he threw it into
the street.

"My little Asticot," he added, resuming his seat. "I myself was once an
artist: now I am a philosopher: it is much better."

He cheerfully attacked his bread and butter. Whether it was a sense o