other hand over the muscles of my arms and the sinews of my poor little legs.
"Chevalier," said he, "you're dreadfully puny. What's one to do with you?"
I dropped my eyes and said nothing. Heaven knows I felt puny.
"It's time you knew how to read and write. What are you blushing at?"
"I do know how to read," said I.
My father stared. "Pray, who taught you?"
"I learned in a book."
"What book?"
I looked up at my father before I answered. His eyes were bright, and there was a little flush in his face,—I hardly knew whether of pleasure or anger. I disengaged myself and went into the drawing-room, where I took from a cupboard in the wall an odd volume of Scarron's Romun comique. As I had to go through the house, I was absent some minutes. When I came back I found a stranger on the terrace. A young man in poor clothes, with
