The day was breaking; a calm, clear, lovely day of June. The light began to steal into the poor apartment where little Francis, the son of Jacques and Madeline Legrand, lay very near death's door. He was seven years old; three weeks ago, a fair-haired, rosy, little boy, as happy as a bird. But one night, when he came home from school, his head was giddy and his hands were burning. Ever since he had lain there in his cot. To-night he did not wander in his mind; but for two days his strange listlessness had alarmed the doctor. He lay there sad and quiet, as if at seven years old he was already tired of life; rolling his head upon the bolster, his thin lips never smiling, his eyes staring at one knew not what. He would take nothing--neither medicine, syrup, nor beef-tea. "Is there anything that you would like?" they asked him. "No," he answered, "nothing." "This must be remedied," the doctor said. "This torpor is alarming. You are his parents, and you know him best. Try to discover what will interest and amuse him." And the doctor went away. [Illustration: "'THIS MUST BE REMEDIED,' THE DOCTOR SAID."] To amuse him! True, they knew him well, their little Francis. They knew how it delighted him, when he was well, to go into the fields, and to come home, loaded with white hawthorn blossoms, riding on his father's shoulders. Jacques had already bought him gilded soldiers, figures, "Chinese shadows," to be shown upon a screen. He placed them on the sick child's bed, made them dance before his eyes, and, scarcely able to keep back his tears, strove to make him laugh. "Look, there is the Broken Bridge. Tra-la-la! And there is a general. You saw one once at Boulogne Wood, don't you remember? If you drink your medicine like a good boy, I will buy you a real one, with a cloth tunic and gold epaulettes. Would you like to have a general?" "No," said the sick child, his voice dry with fever. "Would you like a pistol and bullets, or a crossbow?" "No," replied the little voice, decisively. And so it was with everything--even with balloons and jumping-jacks. Still, while the parents looked at each other in despair, the little voice responded, "No! No! No!" "But what is there you would like, then, darling?" said his mother. "Come, whisper to me--to mamma." And she laid her cheek beside him on the pillow. The sick boy raised himself in bed, and, throwing out his eager hands towards some unseen object, cried out, as in command and in entreaty, "I want _Slap-bang_!" II. "Slap-bang!" The poor mother looked at her husband with a frightened glance. What was the little fellow saying? Was the terrible delirium coming back again? "Slap-bang!" She knew not what that signified. She was frightened at the strangeness of the words, which now the sick boy, with the perversity of illness--as if, having screwed his courage up to put his dream in words, he was resolved to speak of nothing else--repeated without ceasing:-- "Slap-bang! I want Slap-bang!"