not only of the old life, but, as it were, the
parchment for the new. There it was, a piece of plain good paper, ready
for pen and ink and his letter to the Cure's brother in Paris--the
only letter he would ever write, ever again until he died, so he told
himself; but hold it up to the light and there was the name over which
his letter must be written--Kathleen, invisible but permanent, obscured,
but brought to life by the raising of a hand.

The girl caught the flash of feeling in his face, saw him holding the
paper up to the light, and then, with an abstracted air, calmly lay it
down.

"That will do, thank you," he said. "Give me the whole packet." She
wrapped it up for him without a word, and he laid down a two-dollar
note, the last he had in the world.

"How much of this paper have you?" he asked. The girl looked under the
counter. "Six packets," she said. "Six, and a few sheets over."

"I will take it all. But keep it for me, for a week, or perhaps a
fortnight, will you?" He did not need all this paper to write letters
upon, yet he meant to buy all the paper of this sort that the shop
contained. But he must get money from Louis Trudel--he would speak about
it to-morrow.

"Monsieur does not want me to sell even the loose sheets?"

"No. I like the paper, and I will take it all."

"Very good, Monsieur."

Her heart was beating hard. All this man did had peculiar significance
to her. His look seemed to say: "Do not fear. I will tell you things."

She gave him the parcel and the change, and he turned to go. "You read
much?" he asked, almost casually, yet deeply interested in the charm and
intelligence of her face.

"Why, yes, Monsieur," she answered quickly. "I am always reading."

He did not speak at once. He was wondering whether, in this primitive
place, such a mind and nature would be the wiser for reading; whether
it were not better to be without a mental aspiration, which might set up
false standards.

"What are you reading now?" he asked, with his hand on the door.

"Antony and Cleopatra, also Enoch Arden," she answered, in good English,
and without accent.

His head turned quickly towards her, but he did not speak.

"Enoch Arden is terrible," she added eagerly. "Don't you think so,
Monsieur?"

"It is very painful," he answered. "Good-night." He opened the door and
went out.

She ran to the door and watched him go down the street. For a little she
stood thinking, then, turning to the counter,