Tomas replied that there was a free hour before supper, and a little while somewhere about noon in the garden; also, they must wait on table; and oh, he forgot the prayers; and then went on to complete the packing of the day with various small duties in the nature of attentions to the comfort of Tomas. With some last words as to the time of the next meal, the steward left them. The lads, silent and anxious, arranged their small possessions. A little goldfinch in a wicker cage was Francis’s most valued property; he had taught it many pretty tricks, and now he had been allowed to bring it with him. François put the cage on the window-ledge, and fed his brightly tinted bird from a small store of millet with which he had filled his pocket. Then he looked out to see what prospect the view from the attic afforded. The home of the master-choristers was an ancient house of the days of Henri IV, and leaned so far over that as the boy looked out he had a sudden fear lest it should be about to tumble. The street was not more than twelve feet wide. The opposite dwellings were a full story below the attic from which the boy looked. The nearest house across the way had an ancient stoop. Others bent back from the line of the street, and the open windows gave them a look of yawning weariness which set the boy to gaping in sympathy. Above was a mottled wilderness of discolored tiles, chimney-pots, and here and there gray corner turrets with vanes which seemed to entertain diverse views as to the direction whence the wind blew. Below was the sunless well of the street. As he gazed he saw the broad hats of priests hiding the figures beneath them. It interested the boy. It was new and strange. He was too intent to notice that all but he had gone, obedient to an order of Tomas. A woman at a window over the way let fall a skirt she had been drying. It sailed to and fro, and fell on the head of a reflective abbé. The boy broke into laughter. A cat climbed on to a chimney-pot, and was met by a gust of smoke from the flue beside it. She scrambled off, sneezing. "What fun!" cried the boy, and laughed again. "Little beast!" shouted Tomas. "Must I come for thee? ’T is not permitted to laugh. It is forbid to laugh. It spoils the voice"—a queer notion which, to his sorrow, the boy found to prevail in the house of the choristers. "How can that be?" said François, boldly. The man gave him to understand that he was to obey his betters without answering, and then, taking the cage from the window, said: "Come—quick, too! Thou art late for the dinner, and must do without it. There is a singing-lesson. Off with thee!" He was leaving the room when, suddenly, a strange fury of anger came on the boy. He snatched the cage from the man’s hand, crying, "My bird! It is my bird!"