have kindly pleasant looks, and are many—while
he is one?

Who knows as well as I do the interest that
a man thus utterly alone will take in persons
unknown to him, and how he will occupy himself
with their affairs—the pleasure it will give him
to exchange a word or two with the old lady who
keeps the café, and to get a hearty "Good night"
from her when he takes his leave? It requires
some experience of solitude to enable any one to
understand how precious such small interchanges
of common-place remarks may be to one who
has had nobody to speak to all the day, and for
many days together. It requires some knowledge
of sorrow and depression to reveal how
inexpressibly dear a kindly uttered "Good
night" may be to one who hopes with all his
soul that that wish, spoken with little thought
of what it means, may be fulfilled.

             CHAPTER THE FIFTH.

IT was only a twopenny affair when all's told,
but there was in the expression of the dog's
face as he looked back at his master, at every
step he took, something which touched me
nearly; so nearly, that I turned round to watch
these two—the blind man and his dog—after
they had passed me, and continued to watch
them, too, long enough to get (for it was in a
busy street) sadly buffeted and knocked about
by the passers-by.

It was to a snuff-shop door that the dog—
looking back, as I have said, at every step to see
how the old man got on—it was straight to a
snuff-shop door that he led him. Here the old
man began to feel for the handle of the lock,
asking advice gravely upon the subject from the
dog, whose name, it seemed, was Azor.

Azor was one of those dogs whose tawny fur
is soft and thick, whose ears are sharp and
pointed, and whose eyes are black and bright
and watchful; in short, if there could be such
a thing in creation as a fox of an amiable
character, ignorant of the world and its wiles,
easily taken in, and with his tail curled up upon
his back, it would be such an animal that Azor
would most strongly have resembled. He had
brought his master to the threshold, but could
do no more for him; so he stood, watching with
ears erect and glistening eyes, the issue of the
blind man's search.

It was so far successful that he was getting
very near the object of it, and Azor was brightening
up prodigiously, when suddenly a rough
and blue-bloused savage, flinging the door open
from within, and plunging heavily out into the
street, failed but by a little to upset the blind
man's balance, and kicked Azor into the gutter.

Even then, the dog's first thought on recovering
his legs was for the blind beggar, and it
was with a piteous expression of interest that
he looked up at him to see how he fared.

"And so, poor beast,", I said, muttering the
words aloud, as is the wont of those who are
much alone—"and so, this is the life which thou
dost bear so kindly. What an existence is thine
Azor," I continued; "why, thou art tied to that
blind man's hand for life. Thou art cut off from
the very habits of a dog. No running hither
and thither—no snuffing and smelling, and
running back to snuff and smell again—for thee.
No passing interchange of thought with others
of thy kind. From these things thou art for
ever separated, and yet these things are very
precious to thee. Thou dost scarce belong,
Azor, to thine own species at all, and art
transplanted to be an associate of ours. Thou art
tied to humanity by that string, and to humanity
in its most impaired and broken state. Thy
master is not only blind, but very old and weak,
infirm and poor, and those two sous which he is
laying out for snuff (for by this time the pair
had got into the shop, and the beggar was
waiting to be served), those two sous are more
than he can spare by five centimes at least.
Thou belongest, Azor, to a nation that loves a
holiday, and to which the attractions of pleasure
are not unknown; as a French dog, it cannot be
but thou must want thy 'jours de fête,' thine
opportunities of play, some chance at times to
have a frisk. Yet I see no holiday, no relaxation,
no sports canine for thee. And still that
dear old face of thine, Azor, is a happy, cheerful
countenance, and an innocent, as ever looked
out from collar. Very different from that old
rascal of a poodle, who sits beside that still
greater old rascal, his master, upon the steps of
St. Roch, and which poodle, habited in a great
coat, and with one eye closed, is a favourite
study with me of an afternoon. Very different
trom him art thou, Azor, and good and true and
patient is thy face, and rough and hard thy lot."

And what am I, who chafe and fret when
kept but for a day from what I want? Am
I not so impatient and ungentle when crossed
in my desires, or deprived by some accident for
half a dozen hours of that liberty, which thou,
Azor, canst never know—am I not so cross-
grained at such times that I may take a lesson
from a dog, and think of thee, when next the
fit comes on?

It was to pay for his snuff (but a twopenny
matter as I have said above) that I ran back
after the old blind beggar, whom Azor was now
pulling eagerly away from the tobacconist's
shop, the door of which having been left ajar,
the dog had opened for him with his nose.

         CHAPTER THE SIXTH.

IT was on Tuesday, November the 30th, 1858,
that I took it into my head that I would get
out into the country round about Paris. I made
two expeditions, both on foot—both in the same
direction. I could not for the life of me
persuade myself to turn my steps in any other.
Belleville! I must go to Belleville. I will go
to no place which does not consist with passing
through Belleville. Come what come may, I
must see Belleville first. Everything else may
take its chance.

On the day I have mentioned, then, and at
two o'clock P.M., grasping my trusty umbrella—
may I introduce here an address to my umbrella?
No, says a stern public, hang your umbrella!