ced　herself　on　my　knee；　then；　folding　her　little　hands　demurely　before　her；　shaking　back　her　curls　and　lifting　her　eyes　to　the　ceiling；　she　menced　singing　a　song　from　some　opera。　It　was　the　strain　of　a　forsaken　lady；　who；　after　bewailing　the　perfidy　of　her　lover；　calls　pride　to　her　aid；　desires　her　attendant　to　deck　her　in　her　brightest　jewels　and　richest　robes；　and　resolves　to　meet　the　false　one　that　night　at　a　ball；　and　prove　to　him；　by　the　gaiety　of　her　demeanour；　how　little　his　desertion　has　affected　her。

The　subject　seemed　strangely　chosen　for　an　infant　singer；　but　I　suppose　the　point　of　the　exhibition　lay　in　hearing　the　notes　of　love　and　jealousy　warbled　with　the　lisp　of　childhood；　and　in　very　bad　taste　that　point　was：　at　least　I　thought　so。

Adèle　sang　the　canzote　tunefully　enough；　and　with　the　na？veté　of　her　age。　This　achieved；　she　jumped　from　my　knee　and　said；　“Now；　Mademoiselle；　I　will　repeat　you　some　poetry。”

Assuming　an　attitude；　she　began；　“La　Ligue　des　Rats：　fable　de　La　Fontaine。”　She　then　declaimed　the　little　piece　with　an　attention　to　punctuation　and　emphasis；　a　flexibility　of　voice　and　an　appropriateness　of　gesture；　very　unusual　indeed　at　her　age；　and　which　proved　she　had　been　carefully　trained。

“Was　it　your　mama　who　taught　you　that　piece？”　I　asked。

“Yes；　and　she　just　used　to　say　it　in　this　way：　‘Qu’　avez　vous　donc？　lui　dit　un　de　ces　rats；　parlez！’　She　made　me　lift　my　hand—so—to　remind　me　to　raise　my　voice　at　the　question。　No