not say anything, his face looked worse than screaming, and he passed away very stiff in his hind-legs. Oh!' (with a fresh outburst) 'when cook told me that her sister that was in a decline had gone, I never thought' (sob, sob!) 'poor Vic would be the next.'"
This is not the less heartrending for being amusing, and that short sentence "his face looked worse than screaming" is a master-stroke of realistic description. On the whole, for ordinary family purposes, Molly Danvers is one of the nicest little girls I know; and if we seek—as many people rightly seek—for the poetry, the beauty of childhood, subtly transferred to paper, let us turn back a few years, and re-read for the fifth or the fiftieth time, as it chances, those seven delicious chapters of Quatre-Vingt-Treize, which describe a single day in the lives of the three babies, René Jean, Gros Alain, and Georgette. How many hours must Victor Hugo have watched patiently and gladly the ways of little children before he could paint them with such minute and charming truth, and what sheer delight is embodied in every line! They do nothing remarkable,
