passed. One morning (it was a FETE, and we had the day
to ourselves) Frances said to me, with a suddenness peculiar to her when
she had been thinking long on a subject, and at last, having come to
a conclusion, wished to test its soundness by the touchstone of my
judgment:--

"I don't work enough."

"What now?" demanded I, looking up from my coffee, which I had been
deliberately stirring while enjoying, in anticipation, a walk I proposed
to take with Frances, that fine summer day (it was June), to a certain
farmhouse in the country, where we were to dine. "What now?" and I
saw at once, in the serious ardour of her face, a project of vital
importance.

"I am not satisfied" returned she: "you are now earning eight thousand
francs a year" (it was true; my efforts, punctuality, the fame of my
pupils' progress, the publicity of my station, had so far helped me
on), "while I am still at my miserable twelve hundred francs. I CAN do
better, and I WILL."

"You work as long and as diligently as I do, Frances."

"Yes, monsieur, but I am not working in the right way, and I am
convinced of it."

"You wish to change--you have a plan for progress in your mind; go and
put on your bonnet; and, while we take our walk, you shall tell me of
it."

"Yes, monsieur."

She went--as docile as a well-trained child; she was a curious mixture
of tractability and firmness: I sat thinking about her, and wondering
what her plan could be, when she re-entered.

"Monsieur, I have given Minnie" (our bonne) "leave to go out too, as it
is so very fine; so will you be kind enough to lock the door, and take
the key with you?"

"Kiss me, Mrs. Crimsworth," was my not very apposite reply; but she
looked so engaging in her light summer dress and little cottage bonnet,
and her manner in speaking to me was then, as always, so unaffectedly
and suavely respectful, that my heart expanded at the sight of her, and
a kiss seemed necessary to content its importunity.

"There, monsieur."

"Why do you always call me 'Monsieur?' Say, 'William.'"

"I cannot pronounce your W; besides, 'Monsieur' belongs to you; I like
it best."

Minnie having departed in clean cap and smart shawl, we, too, set out,
leaving the house solitary and silent--silent, at least, but for
the ticking of the clock. We were soon clear of Brussels; the fields
received us, and then the lanes, remote from carriage-resounding
CHAUSSEES. Ere long we came upon a nook, so rural, green, and s