attraction he felt,--but there was something else in the nature of
his emotion which he found it impossible to define. It was as though
some great blankness in his life had been suddenly filled;--as if
the boy whom he had found solitary and weeping within the porch of
the Cathedral of Notre Dame, belonged to him in some mysterious way
and was linked to his life so closely and completely as to make
parting impossible. But what a fantastic notion! Viewed by the light
of calm reason, there was nothing in the occurrence to give rise to
any such sentiment. Here was a poor little wayfarer, evidently
without parents, home, or friends,--and the Cardinal had given him a
night's lodging, and to-morrow--yes, to-morrow, he would give him
food and warm clothing and money,--and perhaps a recommendation to
the Archbishop in order that he might get a chance of free education
and employment in Rouen, while proper enquiries were being made
about him. That was the soberly prosaic and commonplace view to take
of the matter. The personality of the little fellow was intensely
winning,--but after all, that had nothing to do with the facts of
the case. He was a waif and stray, as he himself had said; his name,
so far as he seemed to know it, was Manuel,--an ordinary name enough
in France,--and his age might be about twelve,--not more. Something
could be done for him,--something SHOULD be done for him before the
Cardinal parted with him. But this idea of "parting" was just what
seemed so difficult to contemplate! Puzzled beyond measure at the
strange state of mind in which he found himself, Felix Bonpre went
over and over again all the events of the day in order,--his arrival
in Rouen,--his visit to the Cathedral, and the grand music he had
heard or fancied he heard there,--his experience with the sceptical
little Patoux children and their mother,--his conversation with the
Archbishop, in which he had felt much more excitement than he was
willing to admit,--his dream wherein he had been so painfully