craps of vegetables floating in it. He was astonished at the piece
of bread, nearly a yard long, placed on the table. M. du Tillet
cut a piece off and handed it to him. He broke a portion of it into
his broth, and found, when he tasted it, that it was much nicer
than it looked.

"It's not so bad after all," he thought to himself. "Anyhow bread
seems plentiful, so there's no fear of my starving." He followed
his companion's example and made his way steadily through a number
of dishes all new and strange to him; neither his sight nor his taste
gave him the slightest indication as to what meat he was eating.

"I suppose it's all right," he concluded; "but what people can want
to make such messes of their food for I can't make out. A slice of
good roast beef is worth the lot of it; but really it isn't nasty;
some of the dishes are not bad at all if one only knew what they
were made of." M. du Tillet offered him some wine, which he tasted
but shook his head, for it seemed rough and sour; but he poured
himself out some water. Presently a happy idea seized him; he
touched the bread and said interrogatively, "Bread?" M. du Tillet
at once replied "Pain," which Harry repeated after him.

The ice thus broken, conversation began, and Harry soon learned the
French for knife, fork, spoon, plate, and various other articles,
and felt that he was fairly on the way towards talking French.
After the meal was over M. du Tillet rose and put on his hat, and
signed to Harry to accompany him. They strolled through the town,
went down to the quays and looked at the fishing-boats; Harry was
feeling more at home now, and asked the French name for everything
he saw, repeating the word over and over again to himself until he
felt sure that he should remember it, and then asking the name of
some fresh object.

The next morning they started in the post-waggon for Paris, and
arrived there after thirty-six hours' travel. Harry was struck
with the roads, which were far better tended and kept than those in
England. The extreme flatness of the country surprised him, and,
except in the quaintness of the villages and the variety of the
church towers, he saw little to admire during the journey.

"If it is all like this," he thought to himself, "I don't see that
they have any reason for calling it La belle France."

Of Paris he saw little. A blue-bloused porter carried his trunk what
seemed to Harry a long distance from the place where the conveyance