the first class library which he had occasion to consult; he had come to seek it. On his way he passed the refectory. It was very much his habit to wear eyes before, behind, and on each side of him. He had seen me through the little window; he now opened the refectory door, and there he stood.

“Mademoiselle, vous êtes triste.”

“Monsieur, j’en ai bien le droit.”

“Vous êtes malade de cœur et d’humeur,” he pursued. “You are at once mournful and mutinous. I see on your cheek two tears which I know are hot as two sparks and salt as two crystals of the sea. While I speak you eye me strangely. Shall I tell you of what I am reminded while watching you?”

“Monsieur, I shall be called away to prayers shortly; my time for conversation is very scant and brief at this hour. Excuse——”

“I excuse everything,” he interrupted; “my mood is so meek, neither rebuff nor perhaps insult could ruffle it. You remind me, then, of a young she wild creature, new caught, untamed, viewing with a mixture of fire and fear the first entrance of the breaker-in.”

Unwarrantable accost! rash and rude if addressed to a pupil, to a teacher inadmissible. He thought to provoke a warm reply. I had seen him vex the passionate to explosion before now. In me his malice should find no gratification. I sat silent.

“You look,” said he, “like one who would snatch at a draught of sweet poison, and spurn wholesome bitters with disgust.”

“Indeed, I never liked bitters, nor do I believe them wholesome. And to whatever is sweet, be it poison or food, you cannot, at least, deny its own delicious quality—sweetness. Better, perhaps, to die quickly a pleasant death than drag on long a charmless life.”

“Yet,” said he, “you should take your bitter dose duly and daily, if I had the power to administer it; and as to the well-beloved poison, I would, perhaps, break the very cup which held it.”

I sharply turned my head away, partly because his presence utterly displeased me, and partly because I wished to shun questions, lest, in my present mood, the effort of answering should overmaster self- command.

“Come,” said he more softly, “tell me the truth. You grieve at being parted from friends. Is it not so?”

The insinuating softness was not more acceptable than the inquisitorial curiosity. I was silent. He came into the room, sat down on the bench about two yards from me, and persevered long, and, for him, patiently, in attempts to draw me into conversation—attempts necessarily unavailing, because I could not talk. At last I entreated to be let alone. In uttering the request, my voice faltered, my head sank on my arms and the table. I wept bitterly, though quietly. He sat a while longer. I did not look up nor speak, till the closing door and his retreating step told me that he was gone. These tears proved a relief.

I had time to bathe my eyes before breakfast, and I suppose I appeared at that meal as serene as any other person—not, however, quite as jocund-looking as the young lady who placed herself in the seat opposite mine, fixed on me a pair of somewhat small eyes twinkling gleefully, and frankly stretched across the table a white hand to be shaken. Miss Fanshawe’s travels, gaieties, and flirtations agreed with her mightily. She had become quite plump. Her cheeks looked as round as apples. I had seen her last in elegant evening attire. I don’t know that she looked less charming now in her schooldress, a kind of careless peignoir of a dark-blue material, dimly and dingily plaided with black. I even think this dusky wrapper gave her charms a triumph, enhancing by contrast the fairness of her skin, the freshness of her bloom, the golden beauty of her tresses.