It sounded like a song, and the words were not like any that he had ever heard since he came to live with Henri and Brossard.

He could not forget them, though, for had they not sung themselves through that beautiful dream every time he had it?
"Little Boy Blue, oh, where are you?
O, where are you-u-u-u ?" He only laughed in the dream picture and ran on after the firefly.

Then a man came running after him, and, catching him, tossed him up laughingly, and carried him to the house on his shoulder.
Somebody held a glass of cool, creamy milk for him to drink, and by and by he was in a little white night-gown in the woman's lap.

His head was nestled against her shoulder, and he could feel her soft lips touching him on cheeks and eyelids and mouth, before she began to sing: "Oh, little Boy Blue, lay by your horn, And mother will sing of the cows and the corn, Till the stars and the angels come to keep Their watch, where my baby lies fast asleep." Now all of a sudden Jules knew that there was another kind of hunger worse than the longing for bread.

He wanted the soft touch of those lips again on his mouth and eyelids, the loving pressure of those restful arms, a thousand times more than he had wished for the loaf that he had just brought home.