through, gave freshness,
the sweet violets lent fragrance.

"Pretty, pretty place!" said I. M. Paul smiled to see me so pleased.

"Must we sit down here and wait?" I asked in a whisper, half awed by
the deep pervading hush.

"We will first peep into one or two other nooks of this nutshell," he
replied.

"Dare you take the freedom of going all over the house?" I inquired.

"Yes, I dare," said he, quietly.

He led the way. I was shown a little kitchen with a little stove and
oven, with few but bright brasses, two chairs and a table. A small
cupboard held a diminutive but commodious set of earthenware.

"There is a coffee service of china in the salon," said M. Paul, as I
looked at the six green and white dinner-plates; the four dishes, the
cups and jugs to match.

Conducted up the narrow but clean staircase, I was permitted a glimpse
of two pretty cabinets of sleeping-rooms; finally, I was once more led
below, and we halted with a certain ceremony before a larger door than
had yet been opened.

Producing a second key, M. Emanuel adjusted it to the lock of this
door. He opened, put me in before him.

"Voici!" he cried.

I found myself in a good-sized apartment, scrupulously clean, though
bare, compared with those I had hitherto seen. The well-scoured boards
were carpetless; it contained two rows of green benches and desks, with
an alley down the centre, terminating in an estrade, a teacher's chair
and table; behind them a tableau, On the walls hung two maps; in the
windows flowered a few hardy plants; in short, here was a miniature
classe--complete, neat, pleasant.

"It is a school then?" said I. "Who keeps it? I never heard of an
establishment in this faubourg."

"Will you have the goodness to accept of a few prospectuses for
distribution in behalf of a friend of mine?" asked he, taking from his
surtout-pocket some quires of these documents, and putting them into my
hand. I looked, I read--printed in fair characters:--

"Externat de demoiselles. Numero 7, Faubourg Clotilde, Directrice,
Mademoiselle Lucy Snowe."

* * * * *

And what did I say to M. Paul Emanuel?

Certain junctures of our lives must always be difficult of recall to
memory. Certain points, crises, certain feelings, joys, griefs, and
amazements, when reviewed, must strike us as things wildered and
whirling, dim as a wheel fast spun.

I can no more remember the thoughts or the words of the ten minutes
su