"And why do you like it?" continued the Doctor. (We are now pursuing the Socratic method.) Why do you like it?"

"It is quiet," answered Jean-Marie; " and I have nothing to do; and then I feel as if I were good."

Dr. Desprez took a seat at the opposite side. He was beginning to take an interest in the talk, for the boy plainly thought before he spoke, and tried to answer truly. "It appears you have a taste for feeling good," said the Doctor. Now, there you puzzle me extremely; for I thought you said you were a thief; and the two are incompatible."

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"Is it very bad to steal?" asked Jean-Marie.

"Such is the general opinion, little boy," replied the Doctor.

"For

"No, but I mean as I stole," exclaimed the other. I had no choice. I think it is surely right to have bread; it must be right to have bread, there comes so plain a want of it. And then they beat me cruelly if I returned with nothing," he added. "I was not ignorant of right and wrong; for before that I had been well taught by a priest, who was very kind to me." (The Doctor made a horrible grimace at the word "priest.") "But it seemed to me, when one had nothing to eat and was beaten, it was a different affair. I would not have stolen for tartlets, I believe; but any one would steal for baker's bread."

"And so I suppose," said the Doctor, with a rising sneer, "you prayed God to forgive you, and explained the case to him at length."

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"Why, sir?" asked Jean-Marie. "I do not see."

"Your priest would see, however," retorted Desprez. "Would he?" asked the boy, troubled for the first time. "I should have thought God would have known." "Eh?" snarled the Doctor.

"I should have thought God would have understood me,"

replied the other. "You do not, I see; but then it was God that made me think so, was it not?"

"Little boy, little boy," said Dr. Desprez, "I told you already you had the vices of philosophy; if you display the virtues also, I must go. I am a student of the blessed laws of health, an observer of plain and temperate nature in her common walks; and I cannot preserve my equanimity in presence of a monster. Do you understand?"

"No, sir," said the boy.

"I will make my meaning clear to you," replied the Doctor. "Look there at the sky-behind the belfry first, where it is so light, and then up and up, turning your chin back, right to the top of the dome, where it is already as blue as at noon. Is not that a beautiful color? Does it not please the heart? We have seen it all our lives, until it has grown in with our familiar thoughts. Now," changing his tone, "suppose that sky to become suddenly of a live and fiery amber, like the color of clear coals, and growing scarlet toward the top-I do not say it would be any the less beautiful; but would you like it as well?"

"I suppose not," answered Jean-Marie.

"Neither do I like you," returned the Doctor, roughly. "I hate all odd people, and you are the most curious little boy in all the world."

Jean-Marie seemed to ponder for a while, and then raised his head again and looked over at the Doctor with an air of candid inquiry. "But are not you a very curious gentleman? " he asked.

The Doctor threw away his stick, bounded on the boy, clasped him to his bosom, and kissed him on both cheeks. "Admirable, admirable imp!" he cried. "What a morning, what an hour for a theorist of forty-two! No," he continued, apostrophizing heaven, "I did not know such boys existed; I was ignorant they made them so; I had doubted

of my race; and now! It is like," he added, picking up his stiek, "like a lovers' meeting."

4. ACTION

1

Characterization, as we have seen, may play as important a part in narration as action. Nevertheless, it is to the action rather than to the characterization that we must look for the real essence of narration. The purpose of narration is not simply the delineation of character, but rather the presentation of character in action. We may have character presented by means of description, that is, character in its static aspect, so to speak; character in its dynamic aspect can be properly presented only by means of narration. We judge a man's character not so much by what is said of him as by what he does. Moreover, as between his own word and deed, we judge of him by the deed rather than by the word; " actions," so runs the old adage, "speak louder than words."

The action of a narrative may be either simple or complex. It is simple when there is but a single thread of story followed, a single course of events marked out and followed uninterruptedly to the end. It is complex, on the other hand, when several threads of story are taken up, one after another, or when the main current of events, so to speak, meets with cross or counter currents, and is checked for a moment or deflected from the course which it would otherwise take. Most short historical and biographical sketches are examples of narratives with simple action. The

'From The Treasure of Franchard.

selection from Franklin's Autobiography given below, for instance, will serve as an illustration of the type. Of the narrative with complex action, almost any novel will suffice for an example.

In all narratives, whether the action be simple or complex, there must be unification of the action. This unification is accomplished by means of what is called plot. All narratives therefore which are whole,that is, which proceed from some definite beginning to some definite conclusion,-have plot. The term

plot " is used here, of course, in its widest possible sense. In its narrower and more usual sense, it is applied only to that complication or entanglement of the course of action in a fictitious narrative the resolution of which we expect to find at or near the end of the narrative. But even if we use the term in this restricted sense only, no sharp line of distinction can be drawn between those narratives which have plot and those which have not. The complication of the action may be so slight as to be almost imperceptible.

In the following short tale, for example, we have plot, but plot reduced almost to its lowest terms:

THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL

It was terribly cold; it snowed and was already almost dark, and evening came on, the last evening of the year. In the cold and gloom a poor little girl, bareheaded and barefoot, was walking through the streets. When she left her own house she certainly had slippers on; but of what use were they? They were big slippers, and her mother had used them till then, so big were they. The little maid

lost them as she slipped across the road, where two carriages were rattling by terribly fast. One slipper was not to be found again, and a boy had seized the other, and run away with it. He thought he could use it very well as a cradle, some day when he had children of his own. So now the little girl went with her little naked feet, which were quite red and blue with the cold. In an old apron she carried a number of matches, and a bundle of them in her hand. No one had bought of her all day, and no one had given her a farthing.

Shivering with cold and hunger, she crept along, a picture of misery, poor little girl! The snowflakes covered her long fair hair, which fell in pretty curls over her neck; but she did not think of that now. In all the windows lights were shining, and there was a glorious smell of roast goose, for it was New Year's Eve. Yes, she thought of that!

From her father she

In a corner formed by two houses, one of which projected beyond the other, she sat down cowering. She had drawn up her little feet, but she was still colder, and she did not dare to go home, for she had sold no matches, and did not bring a farthing of money. would certainly receive a beating, and besides it was cold at home, for they had nothing over them but a roof through which the wind whistled, though the largest rents had been stopped with straw and rags.

Her little hands were almost benumbed with the cold! Ah! a match might do her good, if she could only draw one from the bundle, and rub it against the wall, and warm her hands at it. She drew one out. R-r-atch! how it sputtered and burned! It was a warm, bright flame, like a little candle, when she held her hands over it; it was a wonderful little light! It really seemed to the little girl as if she sat before a great polished stove, with bright brass feet and a brass cover. How the fire burned! how comfortable it was! But the little flame went out, and the stove