t...."

"Not for the world, sir--not for the world!" interposed my father. "The
boy shan't go, unless I pay for the tickets."

"But, Monsieur...."

"Nothing of the kind, sir. I cannot hear of it. What are the prices of
the seats?"

Our little visitor looked down and was silent; but I replied for him.

"The reserved seats," I whispered, "are half-a-crown each."

"Then I will take eight reserved," said my father, opening a drawer in
his desk and bringing out a bright, new sovereign.

The little Frenchman started. He could hardly believe in such
munificence.

"When? How much?" stammered he, with a pleasant confusion of adverbs.

"Eight," growled my father, scarcely able to repress a smile.

"Eight? _mon Dieu_, Monsieur, how you are generous! I shall keep for you
all the first row."

"Oblige me by doing nothing of the kind," said my father, very
decisively. "It would displease me extremely."

The Chevalier counted out the eight little pink cards, and ranged them
in a row beside my father's desk.

"Count them, Monsieur, if you please," said he, his eyes wandering
involuntarily towards the sovereign.

My father did so with much gravity, and handed over the money.

The Chevalier consigned it, with trembling fingers, to a small canvas
bag, which looked very empty, and which came from the deepest recesses
of his pocket.

"Monsieur," said he, "my thanks are in my heart. I will not fatigue you
with them. Good-morning."

He bowed again, for perhaps the twentieth time; lingered a moment at the
threshold; and then retired, closing the door softly after him.

My father rubbbed his head all over, and gave a great yawn of
satisfaction.

"I am so much obliged to you, sir," I said, eagerly.

"What for?"

"For having bought those tickets. It was very kind of you."

"Hold your tongue. I hate to be thanked," snarled he, and plunged back
again into his books and papers.

Once more the studious silence in the room--once more the rustling leaf
and scratching pen, which only made the stillness seem more still,
within and without.

"I beg your pardons," murmured the voice of the little Chevalier.

I turned, and saw him peeping through the half-open door. He looked more
wistful than ever, and twisted the handle nervously between his fingers.

My father frowned, and muttered something between his teeth. I fear it
was not very complimentary to the Chevalier.

"One word, Monsieur," pleaded the little man, edging him