the atmosphere with which she was familiar.

Yes, it was le Cochon.

She knew him for an escaped convict, for a murderer as well as a
robber, and that he would slit a throat for twenty sous if there were
fair promise of immunity.

She felt instinctively that she was lost.

All at once the man stopped, went on, paused again.

Then she heard other footsteps. They grew louder. They were evidently
approaching. They were the heavy, hob-nailed shoes of some laborer on
his way to work.

Her heart stood still for a few moments as she listened, then beat
wildly with renewed hope.

If she could only cry out; but the rag that filled her mouth made
giving the alarm impossible.

Finally, after some hesitation, her abductor moved on as if to meet
the coming footsteps, slowly, and leaning far over now and then, in
apparent attempt to counterfeit the occupation of a rag-picker. And at
such moments the child felt that she was standing on the back of her
neck.

The heavy tramp of the stranger grew nearer--was upon them.

"Bonjour!" called out a cheerful, manly voice.

"Bonjour, monsieur!" replied le Cochon, humbly.

"You are abroad early this morning."

"It is necessary, if an honest chiffonnier would live these times."

"Possible. Good luck to you."

"Thanks, monsieur."

The steps had never paused and were quickly growing fainter down the
road, while the young heart within the basket grew fainter and fainter
with the fading sounds.

This temporary hope thus crushed was more cruel than her former
despair.

Her bearer uttered a low volley of horrible imprecations directed
towards the unknown.

He stopped suddenly, and, unstrapping the basket from his shoulders,
placed it on the ground.

Fouchette smelled the morning vapors of the river; discerned now the
distinct gurgle of the flood.

As the robber took the rags from the basket and pulled her roughly
forth, the full significance of her perilous situation rushed upon
her. She trembled so that she could scarcely stand,--would have
toppled over the edge of the quai but for the strong arm of le Cochon,
who restrained her.

"Not yet, petite," said he.

And he began to strap the basket upon her young shoulders.

"Pardieu! we must regard conventionalities," he added, with devilish
malignity.

It was early gray of morning, and a mist hung over the dark waters of
the Seine. No attempt had been made to obstruct her vision, which,
long habituated to the hour, took