re beginning my wanderings I wanted to see the man who had been so
good to me. Aunt Catherine had not wished to take me with them when they
had gone to say good-by, but I felt that, at least, I could go and see
him now that I was alone.

I did not dare walk across Paris with Capi running at my heels. I was
afraid that a policeman would stop and question me. My greatest fear was
the police. I tied a string to Capi's collar. I was loath to do this,
for I knew that it hurt his self-respect, but it had to be, and in this
humiliating manner I dragged him along to the Clichy prison, where M.
Acquin was serving his sentence. For some moments I looked in a sort of
fear at the great prison doors, thinking that perhaps once they had
closed on me I might not be able to get out again. I found it more
difficult than I had thought to get into a prison, but I would not be
discouraged. After much waiting and questioning, I was finally permitted
to see M. Acquin.

"Ah, Remi, boy, I was expecting you," he said, as I entered the room
where visitors were allowed to see the prisoners. "I scolded Aunt
Catherine for not bringing you with the others."

I brightened up at these words.

"The children tell me that you are going on your wanderings again. Have
you forgotten that you almost died of cold and hunger, my boy?"

"No, I've not forgotten that."

"You were not alone then; you had some one to look after you. At your
age I don't think it is right to go tramping across the country alone."

"You don't want me to bring you news of your children, then?" I asked.

"They told me that you were going to see them all, one after the other,"
he replied, "but I am not thinking of us when I ask you to give up this
wandering life."

"And if I do what you ask I should be thinking of myself and not of you
... of Lise."

This time he looked at me for several seconds, then he suddenly took
both my hands.

"You have a heart, and I will not say another word, my boy. God will
take care of you."

I threw my arms round his neck; the time had come for me to say good-by.
For some moments he held me in silence, then suddenly he felt in his
vest pocket and pulled out a large silver watch.

"Here, boy, take this," he said. "I want you to have it as a keepsake.
It isn't of much value; if it had been I'd have sold it. It doesn't keep
good time, either. When anything is wrong with it, just give it a thump.
It is all I have."

I wanted to refuse such a be