seized it and conveyed it toward his earnest mouth. "No, no!" cried
Mr. Bingle reprovingly. "Mustn't do that. Naughty, naughty! The
microbes will get you if you don't watch out. Dear me, what a strong
little rascal he is! By the way, what is his name?"

"It has been Napoleon," said the mother. "But he can be made to forget
it, m'sieur, if you desire."

"Napoleon Bingle," mused Mr. Bingle, and then sent a sharp,
questioning glance to his wife. She gravely nodded her head. "Not at
all bad. Ahem! Shall we return to the other room? Naturally there are
a great many questions to be asked and answered. Rouquin, will you
oblige me by getting a pad of paper and taking down all of the--er--
statistics?"

It developed that Napoleon Rousseau, now sitting bolt upright in Mrs.
Bingle's lap and staring wide-eyed at the interesting face of Jean
Rousseau, was a trifle over fourteen months of age, born in New York
City, the son of Jean and Marie Vallemont Rousseau, persons lawfully
wedded in the city of Paris by a magistrate--(Madame explained that
while the certificate with all of Jean's paintings had been destroyed
in the fire which wrecked their tiny apartment soon after their
arrival in New York, a copy could easily be obtained if M'sieur et
Madame insisted on going into such small details)--and of sound health
so far as could be known at this time. He had survived the heat of one
summer and had actually thrived on the frigidity of this, his second
winter, notwithstanding the fact that he had frequently slept without
covering in their poor, wind-swept attic.

"Splendid!" said Mr. Single, casting an admiring glance at the