the air of a princess.  The stout German woman got off in front of her husband’s saloon.  The Syrians stopped in front of a store.  Carroll rode through to the end of the line, and there was then nobody left except himself, the two pretty girls, and the little boy.  The girls swept off before him, with a consciousness of their backs in his sight.  Carroll got off, and, to his utter amazement, the little boy, pressing close to his heels, lifted a small voice.  It was an exceedingly small and polite little voice, as sweet as a girl’s, a thin treble.

“Be you Eddy Carroll’s father?” asked the little voice.

Carroll looked down from his height at the small creature beside him.  The little, upturned face looked very far down.  The little cap was pushed back and the fair hair clung to the innocent forehead damply like a baby’s.

“Yes, my little man,” said he, affably.  “Who are you?”

“I go to school with him,” said the little boy.

“Oh!” said Carroll.

“Has he went?” further inquired the little boy, wistfully.  He was a little scholar, but he had not learned as yet the practical application of English.  It was “has gone” in the book and “has went” on the tongue.

“Yes; this morning,” replied Carroll.

“I was in his classes,” said the little voice.

“Why, you are younger than he is!” said Carroll.

“I guess I got my lessons better,” admitted the little voice, but with no conceit, rather with a measure of apology.

Carroll laughed.  “You must have,” said he.  The boy had, undoubtedly, a rather intellectual head, a full forehead, and eyes full of thought and question.

“You go to school in Banbridge?” said Carroll, walking along the street by the boy’s side.

“Yes.  I live here.  My papa is dead and my mother dressmakes.”

“Oh!” said Carroll.  Suddenly, to his utter amazement, the small hand which was free from the books was slid into his, and he was walking up the street with the strange small boy clinging to his hand.  Carroll was conscious of a feeling of grotesque amusement, of annoyance, and at the same time of pleasure and of exquisite flattery.  There was, strangely enough, in the child, nothing which savored of the presuming or the forward.  There was no more offence to be taken than if an exceedingly small, timidly ingratiating, and pretty dog had followed one.  There was the same subtle compliment implied, that the dog and the child considered him a man desirable to be followed, a man to be trusted by such helplessness and ignorance and loving admiration.