hungry for soup is not expected to have any appetite for fish;"—whereupon—sensible to the reproof—she would obediently lap up her little plate of potage, and wait for her reward to come at fish time.
Eponine survived her brothers many years. Enjolras was tragically slain. Gavroche, seduced by wild companions, envying them the uneasy freedom of their lives, and agreeing, doubtless, with Meyerbeer's small daughter that it was a great misfortune to have had genteel parents, leaped one morning from an open window, and was never seen again. Little Bohemian of Paris, he bartered all the luxuries of home for the hardships, the perils, the sweet transient joys that the great, cruel, beautiful, and best loved city in the world gives to its vagabond children.
His place was filled by a silver-grey Angora named Zizi, who spent her days in a kind of comtemplative trance, like a Buddhist saint. Music alone could rouse her from her dreams. She would listen with sleepy satisfaction, and even exert herself so far as to walk up and down the keys of the piano, imitating, according to her fancy, the sounds that she had heard. Zizi had little of the tact and social grace which distinguished Eponine, and which never deserted that adorable cat, even in advanced age. Like so many famous Frenchwomen, she re-
