note of an organ. "Drink to both, Long-legs." Then he trotted away to
the Little Chemist.

"Hush, my friend!" said he, and he drew the other's ear down to his
mouth. "Now there'll be plenty of work for you. We're going to be gay
in Pontiac. We'll come to you with our spoiled stomachs." He edged
round the circle, and back to where the miller his master and the young
Seigneur stood.

"Make more fine flour, old man," said he to the miller; "pates are the
thing now." Then, to Monsieur De la Riviere: "There's nothing like hot
pennies and wine to make the world love you. But it's too late, too late
for my young Seigneur!" he added in mockery, and again he began to hum
in a sort of amiable derision:

"My little tender heart,
O gai, vive le roi!
My little tender heart,
O gai, vive le roi!

'Tis for a grand baron,
Vive le roi, la reine!
'Tis for a grand baron,
Vive Napoleon!"

The words of the last two lines swelled out far louder than the dwarf
meant, for few save Medallion and Monsieur De la Riviere had ever heard
him sing. His concert-house was the Rock of Red Pigeons, his favourite
haunt, his other home, where, it was said, he met the Little Good Folk of
the Scarlet Hills, and had gay hours with them. And this was a matter of