Of course there's the landlady too, Madame Popincourt, a kind enough little cricket of a woman, but with no sense and no head for business.

And so the poor sick thing has not a single pleasure in the world.

She can't read, because it makes her head ache, she says; and she never writes to any one.

One day she tried to sing a little, but it seemed to hurt her, and she stopped before she had begun almost.

Yes, m'sieu', there she is without a single pleasure in the long hours when she doesn't sleep." "There's my canary--that would cheer her up," eagerly said Jean Jacques, who, as the story of the chirruping landlady continued, became master of his agitation, and listened as though to the tale of some life for which he had concern.