most happy to do whatever he could to
forward M. de Chalabre's plans; and as my
father was the first person whom he met with
after his conversation, it was announced to
us, on the very evening of the day on which it
had taken place, that we were forthwith to
learn French; and I verily believe that, if my
father could have persuaded my mother to
join him, we should have formed a French
class of father, mother, and two head of
daughters, so touched had my father been by
the General's account of M. de Chalabre's
present desires, as compared with the high
estate from which he had fallen. Accordingly,
we were installed in the dignity of his first
French pupils. My father was anxious that
we should have a lesson every other day,
ostensibly that we might get on all the more
speedily, but really that he might have a
larger quarterly bill to pay; at any rate until
M. de Chalabre had more of his time occupied
with instruction. But my mother gently
interfered, and calmed her husband down into
two lessons a week, which was, she said, as
much as we could manage. Those happy
lessons! I remember them now, at the
distance of more than fifty years. Our house
was situated on the edge of the forest; our
fields were, in fact, cleared out of it. It was
not good land for clover; but my father would
always sow one particular field with clover-
seed, because my mother was so fond of the
fragrant scent in her evening walks, and
through this a foot-path ran which led into the
forest.

A quarter of a mile beyond—a walk on
the soft fine springy turf, and under the long
low branches of the beech trees, and we
arrived at the old red-brick farm where M.
de Chalabre was lodging. Not that we
went there to take our lessons; that would
have been an offence to his spirit of politeness;
but as my father and mother were his nearest
neighbours, there was a constant interchange
of small messages and notes, which we little
girls were only too happy to take to our dear
M. de Chalabre. Moreover, if our lessons
with my mother were ended pretty early, she
would say—"You have been good girls; now
you may run to the high point in the clover-
field, and see if M. de Chalabre is coming;
and if he is you may walk with him; but
take care and give him the cleanest part of
the path, for you know he does not like to
dirty his boots."

This was all very well in theory; but, like
many theories, the difficulty was to put it in
practice. If we slipped to the side of the path
where the water lay longest, he bowed and
retreated behind us to a still wetter place,
leaving the clean part to us; yet when we
got home his polished boots would be without
a speck, while our shoes were covered with
mud.

Another little ceremony which we had to
get accustomed to, was his habit of taking off
his hat as we approached, and walking by us
holding it in his hand. To be sure, he wore a
wig, delicately powdered, frizzed, and tied in
a queue behind; but we had always a feeling
that he would catch cold, and that he was
doing us too great an honour, and that he did
not know how old, or rather how young we
were, until one day we saw him (far away
from our house) hand a countrywoman over
a stile with the same kind of dainty
courteous politeness, lifting her basket of eggs
over first; and then, taking up the silk-lined
lapel of his coat, he spread it on the palm of
his hand for her to rest her fingers upon;
instead of which she took his small white
hand in her plump vigorous gripe, and leant
her full weight upon him. He carried her
basket for her as far as their roads lay
together; and from that time we were less
shy in receiving his courtesies, perceiving that
he considered them as deference due to our
sex, however old or young, or rich or poor.
So, as I said, we came down from the clover
field in rather a stately manner, and through
the wicket gate that opened into our garden,
which was as rich in its scents of varied kinds
as the clover field had been in its one pure
fragrance. My mother would meet us here;
and somehow—our life was passed as much
out of doors as in-doors, both winter and
summer—we seemed to have our French
lessons more frequently in the garden than in
the house; for there was a sort of arbour on
the lawn near the drawing-room window, to
which we always found it easy to carry a
table and chairs, and all the rest of the lesson
paraphernalia, if my mother did not prohibit
a lesson al fresco.

M. de Chalabre wore, as a sort of morning
costume, a coat, waistcoat, and breeches all
made of a kind of coarse grey cloth which he
had bought in the neighbourhood; his three-
cornered hat was brushed to a nicety, his wig
sat as no one else's did. (My father's was
always awry). And the only thing wanting
to his costume when he came was a flower.
Sometimes I fancied he purposely omitted
gathering one of the roses that clustered up
the farm-house in which he lodged, in order
to afford my mother the pleasure of culling
her choicest carnations and roses to make
him up his nosegay, or "posy" as he liked
to call it; he had picked up that pretty
country word and adopted it as an
especial favourite, dwelling on the first
syllable with all the languid softness of an
Italian accent. Many a time have Mary and
I tried to say it like him; we did so admire
his way of speaking.

Once seated round the table, whether in
the house or out of it, we were bound to
attend to our lessons; and somehow he made
us perceive that it was a part of the same
chivalrous code that made him so helpful to
the helpless, to enforce the slightest claim of
duty to the full. No half prepared lessons for
himI The patience and the resource with
which he illustrated and enforced every