made a quiet, respectful obeisance, as bidding good afternoon,
and was turning to depart:--

"Come here," said I, lifting my finger at the same time. She hesitated;
she could not hear the words amidst the uproar now pervading both
school-rooms; I repeated the sign; she approached; again she paused
within half a yard of the estrade, and looked shy, and still doubtful
whether she had mistaken my meaning.

"Step up," I said, speaking with decision. It is the only way of dealing
with diffident, easily embarrassed characters, and with some slight
manual aid I presently got her placed just where I wanted her to be,
that is, between my desk and the window, where she was screened from the
rush of the second division, and where no one could sneak behind her to
listen.

"Take a seat," I said, placing a tabouret; and I made her sit down. I
knew what I was doing would be considered a very strange thing, and,
what was more, I did not care. Frances knew it also, and, I fear, by an
appearance of agitation and trembling, that she cared much. I drew from
my pocket the rolled-up devoir.

"This it, yours, I suppose?" said I, addressing her in English, for I
now felt sure she could speak English.

"Yes," she answered distinctly; and as I unrolled it and laid it out
flat on the desk before her with my hand upon it, and a pencil in that
hand, I saw her moved, and, as it were, kindled; her depression beamed
as a cloud might behind which the sun is burning.

"This devoir has numerous faults," said I. "It will take you some years
of careful study before you are in a condition to write English with
absolute correctness. Attend: I will point out some principal defects."
And I went through it carefully, noting every error, and demonstrating
why they were errors, and how the words or phrases ought to have been
written. In the course of this sobering process she became calm. I now
went on:

"As to the substance of your devoir, Mdlle. Henri, it has surprised me;
I perused it with pleasure, because I saw in it some proofs of taste and
fancy. Taste and fancy are not the highest gifts of the human mind, but
such as they are you possess them--not probably in a paramount degree,
but in a degree beyond what the majority can boast. You may then take
courage; cultivate the faculties that God and nature have bestowed on
you, and do not fear in any crisis of suffering, under any pressure of
injustice, to derive free and full consolation from the consci