what light did the
often very pithy thoughts, the generally sound, and sometimes original
opinions, set, without pretension, in an easily-flowing, spirited
style, appear to her? How did she like that genial, half humorous vein,
which to me gave such delight? What did she think of the few kind words
scattered here and there-not thickly, as the diamonds were scattered in
the valley of Sindbad, but sparely, as those gems lie in unfabled beds?
Oh, Madame Beck! how seemed these things to you?

I think in Madame Beck's eyes the five letters found a certain favour.
One day after she had _borrowed_ them of me (in speaking of so suave a
little woman, one ought to use suave terms), I caught her examining me
with a steady contemplative gaze, a little puzzled, but not at all
malevolent. It was during that brief space between lessons, when the
pupils turned out into the court for a quarter of an hour's recreation;
she and I remained in the first classe alone: when I met her eye, her
thoughts forced themselves partially through her lips.

"Il y a," said she, "quelquechose de bien remarquable dans le caractere
Anglais."

"How, Madame?"

She gave a little laugh, repeating the word "how" in English.

"Je ne saurais vous dire 'how;' mais, enfin, les Anglais ont des idees
a eux, en amitie, en amour, en tout. Mais au moins il n'est pas besoin
de les surveiller," she added, getting up and trotting away like the
compact little pony she was.

"Then I hope," murmured I to myself, "you will graciously let alone my
letters for the future."

Alas! something came rushing into my eyes, dimming utterly their
vision, blotting from sight the schoolroom, the garden, the bright
winter sun, as I remembered that never more would letters, such as she
had read, come to me. I had seen the last of them. That goodly river on
whose banks I had sojourned, of whose waves a few reviving drops had
trickled to my lips, was bending to another course: it was leaving my
little hut and field forlorn and sand-dry, pouring its wealth of waters
far away. The change was right, just, natural; not a word could be
said: but I loved my Rhine, my Nile; I had almost worshipped my Ganges,
and I grieved that the grand tide should roll estranged, should vanish
like a false mirage. Though stoical, I was not quite a stoic; drops
streamed fast on my hands, on my desk: I wept one sultry shower, heavy
and brief.

But soon I said to myself, "The Hope I am bemoaning suffered and