Dick, whereas accounts of the old world had for him all that charm which a boy reared in the midst of civilization finds in pictures of wilderness life. A few of the books were illustrated with prints, which the boy studied by the hour. One of these books was an odd volume of a history of the world, and contained mainly that part which related to France. It had crude engravings of two or three palaces, a few kings, three or four queens, a Catholic killing a Huguenot in front of the Church of St. Germain l'Auxerrois, a royal hunt, and the Pont Neuf, backed by the towers of Notre Dame and flanked by buildings along the Seine. These rough pictures, thanks to some mysterious cause or other, exercised on little Dick a potent fascination.

"Who is that?" he asked his mother one day, pointing to a wood-cut that purported to portray a human being, as he lay sprawling on the floor, his favorite book opened out before him.

"That is a king," replied his mother, looking down from her sewing. The mother and the boy were alone in the kitchen.

"King David?"

"No; a king of France."

"King George?"

"No; King George is king of England, where your father came from, and your grandfather, and of America, where we are. France is another country."

"Where does this king live?" pointing to the wood-cut.

"He is dead now. He died long ago. He lived in a city called Paris, in the country called France."

"Is that a house?" The boy had turned to a supposed picture of the Louvre.

"Yes, a great, big house, a palace they call it, because it belongs to the king."

"Did it belong to that king?"

"Yes, I think so. It is in the city where I told you that king lived, Paris."

"Is this house in that city, too?" He indicated a building in the picture that showed the Pont Neuf.

"Yes." The mother laid down her sewing and stooped beside the boy. "And so is this house in Paris. And this. And this, too. All these houses are in Paris."

"Do all these people live there, the pretty ladies and soldiers?"

"They all did, I suppose."

"How many houses are there in Paris?"

"Oh, a great many thousand."

"More than there are in Carlisle?"

"Oh, yes! A hundred times more."

"Where is Paris?"

"Oh, very, very far away."

"Which way?"

"Why, that way, I think." She pointed towards the east. "Your father can tell you exactly, when he comes in."

"How far away is it? As far as Carlisle?"

"Much farther than that. Your father can tell you."

"As far as Lancaster?"

"Oh, farther. Farther than Philadelphia. Away across land and water."

"As far away as the farthest mountains yonder, the blue ones against the sky?" He had risen from the floor, and he pointed eastward through the open kitchen doorway.

"Oh, yes. If you went clear across those mountains, you wouldn't be near Paris yet."

"But if I went on and on, far enough, I'd get to Paris at last, wouldn't I?"

"Yes, at last," said the mother, smiling, and drawing the boy to her and kissing him, impelled by the mere thought of the separation his query suggested to the fancy.

When she returned to her sewing, he continued looking for awhile towards the distant east, then resumed his study of the pictures. At supper that evening he made his father laugh by asking which way a body should go, to get to Paris. His mother explained how his curiosity had been aroused. His father, laughing again, and winking at the mother, said:

"Why, boy, a body would have to start by the road that goes down the river to your grandfather's, that's certain. And if a body travelled long enough, and never lost his way, yes, he would surely get to Paris at the end."

"Would he be very tired when he got there?"

"Very tired, indeed, if he didn't rest several times on the way," replied Wetheral, Senior, keeping up the joke.

The next afternoon Dick's mother, having baked some cakes of a kind that she knew her husband liked hot, sent some of them by the boy to the two men in the field, which was not far from the house but was partly hidden therefrom by the barn and out-buildings and some fruit-trees. Dick, being now four years old, had often gone to the fields with his aunt or mother when water or food had been carried out to the men at work, and as the way did not lie near the river, there seemed no risk in sending him now alone. When, after due time, he did not return to the house, the two women supposed the men had kept him with them in the field. But this was not the case. Mr. Wetheral and the hired man, having seen little Dick tripping back towards the house, ate the cakes in the shade of a tree and returned with sickles to their attack on the wheat, with no thought of the boy but that he was now safe home. When they returned in the evening for supper, their surprise in not finding him there was reciprocated by that of the women at his not coming back with the men. The dog, which had accompanied him to the field and from it, also was missing. The men immediately started in search.

The boy by this time was some distance away. He had crawled through the fence, near the barn, descended the declivity to the horse-path by the river, turned his face eastward, and trudged resolutely on with Rover at his heels. It was some time before he would admit to himself that he was becoming a little tired, and that the stones and twigs in the way were bruising his bare feet perceptibly. At last he conceded himself a short rest, and, following Rover's example, leaned over where the bank was low and the river shallow, and drank. He was soon up again and going forward, forgetful of his former fatigue, and heedless that the sun behind him was nearing the horizon. So long a time is a day to a child! In the afternoon the doings of the morning are of the dim past, or are forgotten, while the evening is yet far away, and countless things may be done before the night comes. He could surely reach those farthest blue mountains in an hour or so, and a little walking thereafter must bring him to this strange, wonderful Paris, so entirely different from his own home and from his grandfather's place down the river. He would have to pass his grandfather's place, by the way, on his walk, and it never occurred to him how long a time it would take him to reach merely his grandfather's, so vague was his recollection of his former visits there. He could see Paris, the king and the palaces and the soldiers and the beautiful ladies and the great bridge, and return home by supper-time; and he would have so many things to tell that his father and mother would make his punishment a light one, or might even forget to punish him at all.

He came to a place where the path divided. After a moment's hesitation, he took the wider branch, which carried him from the riverside, straight into the unbroken woods. Presently this path ended abruptly, so that there was nothing before him but thick undergrowth. Rather than retrace his steps to reach the branch that he had rejected, which must be the one he ought to have taken, he started to reach it directly through the woods, moving towards where he thought it should be. He made his way cautiously, lest he might tread on some rattlesnake or other serpent, which could not be as easily seen in the dimness of the forest as in the path by the river. That dimness increased apace, and still he had not found the path. At last the boy paused, perplexed and a little appalled. The chill of evening came on. He was very tired now. He began to think of Indians, bears, and other savage things with whose existence in the neighborhood he was well acquainted, and of monsters of which he had heard