“Tell your sister she was right to shoot, quite right. It’s artificially chance. It was a pity people had to eat food. ‘While you are making me this interrogation, my poor Jacques bleeds to death. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project. "Let me see the earth thrown over her," implored Jack; "and take me where you please. Naturally you shout yourself hoarse when she has finished, and feel jolly pleased with yourself. With his chisel so fine, tra la! "There!" cried the boy, leaping from the stool, and drawing back a few paces on the bench to examine his performance,—"that'll do.
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