"Are you going to stay there all day?" "No, I'm off now." "Where are you going?" "Straight ahead." "If you'd like to stay," he said, perhaps out of pity, "I'll keep you, but I can't pay you, because you're not very strong. Later I might give you something." I thanked him, but said no. "Well, as you like; I was only thinking for your own good. Good-by and good luck!" He went away. The cab had gone, the house was locked up. I turned away from the home where I had lived for two years, and where I had hoped always to live. The sky was clear, the weather warm, very different from the icy night when poor Vitalis and I had fallen exhausted by the wall. So these two years had only been a halt. I must go on my way again. But the stay had done me good. It had given me strength and I had made dear friends. I was not now alone in the world, and I had an object in life, to be useful and give pleasure to those I loved. CHAPTER XX MATTIA The world was before me; I could go where I liked, north, south, east or west. I was my own master. How many children there are who say to themselves, "If I could only do as I liked, ... if I were my own master!" And how impatiently they look forward to this day when they can do the things they have longed to do, ... often very foolish things. Between these children and myself there was a vast difference. When they do anything foolish there is a hand stretched out, and they are picked up if they fall. If I fell I should go down, down, down, and I might not be able to pick myself up again. I was afraid. I knew the dangers that beset me. Before beginning my wanderings I wanted to see the man who had been so good to me. Aunt Catherine had not wished to take me with them when they had gone to say good-by, but I felt that, at least, I could go and see him now that I was alone. I did not dare walk across Paris with Capi running at my heels. I was afraid that a policeman would stop and question me. My greatest fear was the police. I tied a string to Capi's collar. I was loath to do this, for I knew that it hurt his self-respect, but it had to be, and in this humiliating manner I dragged him along to the Clichy prison, where M. Acquin was serving his sentence. For some moments I looked in a sort of fear at the great prison doors, thinking that perhaps once they had closed on me I might not be able to get out again. I found it more difficult than I had thought to get into a prison, but I would not be discouraged. After much waiting and questioning, I was finally permitted to see M. Acquin. "Ah, Remi, boy, I was expecting you," he said, as I entered the room where visitors were allowed to see the prisoners. "I scolded Aunt Catherine for not bringing you with the others." I brightened up at these words. "The children tell me that you are going on your wanderings again. Have you forgotten that you almost died of cold and hunger, my boy?" "No, I've not forgotten that."