attention due to himself. A very eloquent lesson he gave, and very kind and friendly was he to the close. Ere he had done, the clouds were dispersed and the sun shining out—tears were exchanged for smiles.
In quitting the room he paused once more at my desk.
"And your letter?" said he, this time not quite fiercely.
"I have not yet read it, monsieur."
"Ah! it is too good to read at once: you save it, as, when I was a boy, I used to save a peach whose bloom was very ripe?"
The guess came so near the truth, I could not prevent a suddenly-rising warmth in my face from revealing as much.
"You promise yourself a pleasant moment," said he, "in reading that letter; you will open it when alone—n'est ce pas? Ah! a smile answers. Well, well! one should not be too harsh; 'la jeunesse n'a qu'un temps.'"
"Monsieur, monsieur!" I cried or rather whispered after him, as he turned to go, "do not leave me under a mistake. This is merely a friend's letter. Without reading it, I can vouch for that."
