uld no one lend me a voice? Had no
one a wish, no one a word, no one a prayer to which I could say--Amen?

I had seen them unanimous in demand for the merest trifle--a treat, a
holiday, a lesson's remission; they could not, they _would_ not now
band to besiege Madame Beck, and insist on a last interview with a
Master who had certainly been loved, at least by some--loved as _they_
could love--but, oh! what _is_ the love of the multitude?

I knew where he lived: I knew where he was to be heard of, or
communicated with; the distance was scarce a stone's-throw: had it been
in the next room--unsummoned, I could make no use of my knowledge. To
follow, to seek out, to remind, to recall--for these things I had no
faculty.

M. Emanuel might have passed within reach of my arm: had he passed
silent and unnoticing, silent and stirless should I have suffered him
to go by.

Morning wasted. Afternoon came, and I thought all was over. My heart
trembled in its place. My blood was troubled in its current. I was
quite sick, and hardly knew how to keep at my post--or do my work. Yet
the little world round me plodded on indifferent; all seemed jocund,
free of care, or fear, or thought: the very pupils who, seven days
since, had wept hysterically at a startling piece of news, appeared
quite to have forgotten the news, its import, and their emotion.

A little before five o'clock, the hour of dismissal, Madame Beck sent
for me to her chamber, to read over and translate some English letter
she had received, and to write for her the answer. Before settling to
this work, I observed that she softly closed the two doors of her
chamber; she even shut and fastened the casement, though it was a hot
day, and free circulation of air was usually regarded by her as
indispensable. Why this precaution? A keen suspicion, an almost fierce
distrust, suggested such question. Did she want to exclude sound? what
sound?

I listened as I had never listened before; I listened like the evening
and winter-wolf, snuffing the snow, scenting prey, and hearing far off
the traveller's tramp. Yet I could both listen and write. About the
middle of the letter I heard--what checked my pen--a tread in the
vestibule. No door-bell had rung; Rosine--acting doubtless by
orders--had anticipated such reveillee. Madame saw me halt. She
coughed, made a bustle, spoke louder. The tread had passed on to the
classes.

"Proceed," said Madame; but my hand was fettered, my ear enchai