felt in her had given place to a sort of distrust caused by grave apprehensions on his part.
The young woman, keeping her eyes still fixed upon her lap, continued:
"I have no news to tell you, M. Louis. My godmother is still very ill. Her sufferings seem to increase, and that renders her much more irritable. In order that I may be with her as much as possible, I sew at home now most of the time, instead of going to Madame Jourdan's, so the days seem long and gloomy; for the work done in the shop with my companions was almost a pleasure, and seemed to progress much more rapidly. So I am obliged to work far into the night now, and do not get much sleep, as my godmother suffers much more at night than in the daytime, and requires a great deal of attention from me. Sometimes I do not even wake when she calls me because I am so dead with sleep, and then she scolds, which is very natural when she suffers so.
"You can understand, of course, that my life at home is not very happy, and that a friendly word from you would be a great comfort, and console me for many things that are very unpleasant.
"Good-bye, M. Louis. I expected to have written to you through Augustine, but she has gone back to her home now, and I have been obliged to apply to another person, to whom I have dictated this letter. Ah, M. Louis, never have I realised the misfortune of not knowing how to read or write as much as I do at this present time.
"Farewell, M. Louis, think of me, I beg of you, for I am always thinking of you.
"With sincere affection I once more bid you adieu."
As the young girl remained silent for a minute or two after these words, the old man turned to her and asked:
"Is that all, my child?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"And what name is to be signed to this letter?"
"The name of Mariette, monsieur."
"Mariette only?"
"Mariette Moreau, if you think best, monsieur. That is my family name."
"Signed, Mariette Moreau," said the old man, writing the name as he spoke.
Then, having folded the letter, he asked, concealing the secret anxiety with which he awaited the girl's reply:
"To whom is this letter to be addressed, my child?"
"To M. Louis Richard. General delivery, Dreux."
"I thought as much," secretly groaned the old man, as he prepared to write the address Mariette had just given him.
If the young girl had not been so deeply preoccupied she could hardly have failed to notice the change in the expression of the scrivener's face—a change which became still more noticeable when he discovered for a certainty for whom this missive was intended. It was with a look of positive anger now that he furtively watched Mariette, and he seemed unable to make up his mind to write the address she had just given him, for after having written upon the envelope the words, "To Monsieur," he dropped his pen, and said to his client, forcing a smile in order to conceal alike his resentment and his apprehensions:
"Now, my child, though this is the first time we ever saw each other, it seems to me you feel you can trust me a little already."
"That is true, monsieur. Before I came here, I feared I should not have the courage to dictate my letter to an entire stranger, but your manner was so kind that I soon got over my embarrassment."
"I certainly see no reason why you should feel the slightest embarrassment. If I were your own father, I could not find a word of fault with the letter you have just written to—to M. Louis, and if I were not afraid of abusing the confidence you say that you have in me, I should ask—but no, that would be too inquisitive."
"You would ask me what, monsieur?"
"Who this M. Louis Richard is?"
"That is no secret, monsieur. M. Louis is the clerk of a notary whose office is in the same building as the shop in which I work. It was in this way that we became acquainted on the sixth of May, just one year ago to-day."
"Ah! I understand now why you laid such stress upon that date in your letter."
"Yes, monsieur."
"And you love each other, I suppose—don't blush so, child—and expect to marry some day, probably?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"And M. Louis's family consents to the marriage?"
"M. Louis has no one but his father to consult, and we hope he will not refuse his consent."
"And the young man's father, what kind of a person is he?"
"The best of fathers, M. Louis says, and bears his present poverty with great courage and cheerfulness, though he used to be very well off. M. Louis and his father are as poor now, though, as my godmother and I are. That makes us hope that he will not oppose our marriage."
"And your godmother, my child—it seems to me she must be a great trial to you."
"When one suffers all the time, and has never had anything but misfortunes all one's life, it is very natural that one should not be very sweet tempered."
"Your godmother is an invalid, then?"
"She has lost one of her hands, monsieur, and she has a lung trouble that has confined her to the bed for more than a year."
"Lost her hand—how?"
"She used to work in a mattress factory, monsieur, and one day she ran a long, crooked needle into her hand. The wound became inflamed from want of care, for my godmother had not time to give it the attention it should have had, and the doctors were obliged to cut her arm off. The wound reopens now and then, and causes her a great deal of pain."
"Poor woman!" murmured the scrivener, absently.
"As for the lung trouble she has," continued Mariette, "many women who follow that trade contract the disease, the doctors say, from breathing the unwholesome dust from the old mattresses they make over. My godmother is bent almost double, and nearly every night she has such terrible fits of coughing that I have to hold her for hours, sometimes."
"And your godmother has nothing but your earnings to depend on?"
"She cannot work now, monsieur, of course."
"Such devotion on your part is very generous, I must say."
"I am only doing my duty, monsieur. My godmother took care of me after my parents died, and paid for a three years' apprenticeship for me. But for her, I should not be in a position to earn my living, so it is only right that she should profit now by the assistance she gave me years ago."
"But you must have to work very hard to support her and yourself?"
"Yes; I have to work from fifteen to eighteen hours a day, monsieur."
"And at night you have to nurse her instead of taking the rest you so much need?"
"Who else would nurse her, monsieur?"
"But why doesn't she try to get into some hospital?"
"They will not take her into a hospital because the lung trouble she has is incurable. Besides, I could not desert her like that."
"Ah, well, my child, I see that I was not mistaken. You are a good, noble-hearted girl, there is no doubt of it," added the old man, holding out his hand to Mariette.
As he did, either through awkwardness, or intentionally, the scrivener overturned the inkstand that stood on his desk in such a way that a good part of the contents ran over the letter, which lacked only the address to complete it.
"Good heavens! How unfortunate, the letter is covered with ink, monsieur!" exclaimed Mariette.
"How awkward in me!" responded the old man, with a disgusted air. "Still, it doesn't matter very much, after all. It was a short letter. I write very rapidly, and it will not take me