somehow, neither of us could forget the look it gave us,--such a solemn, warning, pitiful, appealing sort of expression! There was no resisting it,--so we took the foundling and did the best we could for him.

We gave him the name of Sigurd,--and when Thelma was born, the two babies used to play together all day, and we never noticed anything wrong with the boy, except his natural deformity, till he was about ten or twelve years old.
Then we saw to our sorrow that the gods had chosen to play havoc with his wits.

However, we humored him tenderly, and he was always manageable.

Poor Sigurd! He adored my wife; I have known him listen for hours to catch the sound of her footstep; he would actually deck the threshold with flowers in the morning that she might tread on them as she passed by." The old bonds sighed and rubbed his hand across his eyes with a gesture half of pain, half of impatience--"And now he is Thelma's slave,--a regular servant to her.

She can manage him best of us all,--he is as docile as a lamb, and will do anything she tells him." "I am not surprised at that," said the gallant Duprez; "there is reason in such obedience!" Thelma looked at him inquiringly, ignoring the implied compliment.
"You think so ?" she said simply "I am glad! I always hope that he will one day be well in mind,--and every little sign of reason in him is pleasant to me." Duprez was silent.