Dian had reached the gates of Paris and passed through. Though he did not in any way realize it, it was a remarkable thing that he had done. There had been a slight scrimmage among a flock of sheep at the west barrier when he came up to it, and much shouting and bad language had ensued. The guards at the gates were stupid, bad-tempered men, and they berated the market farmers loudly. Dian had called out to the flock in the tones so well known by his own sheep at home in Pigeon Valley. He knew well that the sheep would listen to him, and in an instant it seemed as though all the wild disorder among them had never been. They passed through the gates, and Dian went with them. There was no one in the motley crowd who did not think that he was their shepherd except the men who owned them, and they were glad enough to be out of the brawl! It had been easy enough to get into Paris, and Dian, with his simple faith, felt that when the right time came it would be easy to get out again. His journey had not been difficult for he was used to every kind of weather and he loved the wind and the snow. He rested whenever he was tired, and he never minded sleeping in the corner of a barn, with his warm cloak wrapped snugly about him. He had brought food in his wallet, and whenever he had thought it wise, he had asked for a glass of warm milk. He walked with long strides, knowing well how to save himself unnecessary fatigue, and he thought not at all about his own welfare. He had never been in a city before in all his life, and had never seen large numbers of people together, and as he stood quietly on a street corner watching the wild tide of life that swept past him, he wondered greatly. He had a hard task before him. He was thinking how best to perform it, as he stood in the shadow of a gabled shop door on this dark, brooding day. It was less than a week since Lisle had been carried away from his home and Humphrey Trail had brought Rosanne to be a friend to Vivi. To find Lisle’s home was Dian’s task, and he wanted to do it without asking questions of any one. He took out a faded, leather wallet from an inner pocket of the smock which he wore under his cloak. Standing so that the light fell upon the wallet, he took from it a long folded piece of thin paper, which he opened and examined. It was the plan of a street and a house. He stood for a long time there in the shadow looking at it closely. It was traced in black ink delicately but distinctly. After he had looked at it for some time, he folded it up and put it back in the wallet, and then put the wallet in the inner pocket of his smock again. Some one bumped against him in passing. It was a farmer’s lad with a sack of potatoes over his shoulder. They were close to the gates and the market carts were drawn up in rows near by, looking ghostly in the cold morning fog. The boy had an honest face, and Dian was moved to speak to him. “It is a bleak winter day,” he volunteered, and the boy answered snappily: