cy, or the dragon aforesaid! How my heart
palpitated with delight when, through apertures in the envious boughs,
I at once caught the gleam of your graceful straw-hat, and the waving
of your grey dress--dress that I should recognise amongst a thousand.
But why, my angel, will you not look up? Cruel, to deny me one ray of
those adorable eyes!--how a single glance would have revived me! I
write this in fiery haste; while the physician examines Gustave, I
snatch an opportunity to enclose it in a small casket, together with a
bouquet of flowers, the sweetest that blow--yet less sweet than thee,
my Peri--my all-charming! ever thine-thou well knowest whom!"

"I wish I did know whom," was my comment; and the wish bore even closer
reference to the person addressed in this choice document, than to the
writer thereof. Perhaps it was from the fiance of one of the engaged
pupils; and, in that case, there was no great harm done or
intended--only a small irregularity. Several of the girls, the
majority, indeed, had brothers or cousins at the neighbouring college.
But "la robe grise, le chapeau de paille," here surely was a clue--a
very confusing one. The straw-hat was an ordinary garden head-screen,
common to a score besides myself. The grey dress hardly gave more
definite indication. Madame Beck herself ordinarily wore a grey dress
just now; another teacher, and three of the pensionnaires, had had grey
dresses purchased of the same shade and fabric as mine: it was a sort
of every-day wear which happened at that time to be in vogue.

Meanwhile, as I pondered, I knew I must go in. Lights, moving in the
dormitory, announced that prayers were over, and the pupils going to
bed. Another half-hour and all doors would be locked--all lights
extinguished. The front door yet stood open, to admit into the heated
house the coolness of the summer night; from the portress's cabinet
close by shone a lamp, showing the long vestibule with the two-leaved
drawing-room doors on one side, the great street-door closing the vista.

All at once, quick rang the bell--quick, but not loud--a cautious
tinkle--a sort of warning metal whisper. Rosine darted from her cabinet
and ran to open. The person she admitted stood with her two minutes in
parley: there seemed a demur, a delay. Rosine came to the garden door,
lamp in hand; she stood on the steps, lifting her lamp, looking round
vaguely.

"Quel conte!" she cried, with a coquettish laugh. "Personne n'y a ete