glass
door opened. Tired, I suppose, with her importunity, he threw down his
spade, approached, and pushed the door ajar. Sylvie burst in all
impetuous, sprang to my lap, and with her paws at my neck, and her
little nose and tongue somewhat overpoweringly busy about my face,
mouth, and eyes, flourished her bushy tail over the desk, and scattered
books and papers far and wide.

M. Emanuel advanced to still the clamour and repair the disarrangement.
Having gathered up the books, he captured Sylvie, and stowed her away
under his paletot, where she nestled as quiet as a mouse, her head just
peeping forth. She was very tiny, and had the prettiest little innocent
face, the silkiest long ears, the finest dark eyes in the world. I
never saw her, but I thought of Paulina de Bassompierre: forgive the
association, reader, it _would_ occur.

M. Paul petted and patted her; the endearments she received were not to
be wondered at; she invited affection by her beauty and her vivacious
life.

While caressing the spaniel, his eye roved over the papers and books
just replaced; it settled on the religious tract. His lips moved; he
half checked the impulse to speak. What! had he promised never to
address me more? If so, his better nature pronounced the vow "more
honoured in the breach than in the observance," for with a second
effort, he spoke.--"You have not yet read the brochure, I presume? It
is not sufficiently inviting?"

I replied that I had read it.

He waited, as if wishing me to give an opinion upon it unasked.
Unasked, however, I was in no mood to do or say anything. If any
concessions were to be made--if any advances were demanded--that was
the affair of the very docile pupil of Pere Silas, not mine. His eye
settled upon me gently: there was mildness at the moment in its blue
ray--there was solicitude--a shade of pathos; there were meanings
composite and contrasted--reproach melting into remorse. At the moment
probably, he would have been glad to see something emotional in me. I
could not show it. In another minute, however, I should have betrayed
confusion, had I not bethought myself to take some quill-pens from my
desk, and begin soberly to mend them.

I knew that action would give a turn to his mood. He never liked to see
me mend pens; my knife was always dull-edged--my hand, too, was
unskilful; I hacked and chipped. On this occasion I cut my own
finger--half on purpose. I wanted to restore him to his natural state,
t