"Yes! it is me; let me go with you—
anywhere, I will be your servant,—I'll do
anything on earth for you; don't be angry—I
could not stay with them any longer—she
beat me worse than ever, because she knew I
was happy with you, and you were kind to
me. Oh, let me go with you—let me go with
you!"

"But, child—your mother. I have no
right to take you from her."

"She's not my mother, she's only my
stepmother; and my father is dead. I belong to
nobody—nobody cares for me. Even what I
do for them, they only curse me for, and beat
me when I can't do the work they put me to.
Oh! let me go with you—let me go with
you!"

Claude's hesitation was gone, and taking
her little trembling hand in his, he led
her on.

At the next town they approached, he
gave her money and sent her to a shop to
purchase some decent clothes; then he went
to a little out-of-the-way inn, stopped to give
her rest and food, and made her go and
perform her toilette. In half an hour, down
she came; all traces of poverty, fatigue, and
emotion vanished; her neat dress sitting on
her so gracefully, her wild hair parted in
shining wavy bandeaux beneath her trim
cap, her little Arab feet and firm slender
ancles so symmetrical in high shoes and well-
drawn striped stockings, and, above all, her
oval face, so radiant with beautiful joy and
gratitude.

Claude felt very proud and happy.

"So there you are, little one, you think
yourself smart do you, hein? Well, so do I,—I
think you look charming."

She stood before him, smiling, holding out
her skirts, as children do when their dress is
admired. She broke into a short gleeful
laugh of joy and triumph.

"So you're happy now?"

"Oh! Monsieur!" She seized his hand
and covered it with kisses.

The tears sprang to Claude's eyes; he
drew her towards him, and, resting his chin
on her head, he began, in a voice of deep and
quiet emotion,

"Edmée, I do not know if I have done
right in taking thee; at all events, it is done
now; never, child, give me cause to think I
have acted wrongly—even foolishly, and with
God's help I will be a father and a protector
to thee as long as I live. Kiss me, my
child."

She flung her arms round his neck and
clung to him long and in silence, and he
felt it was very sweet to hold such
communion,—to claim such love, and trust, and
gratitude from a human creature—sweeter
than to hold imaginary unloving converse
with the shadows of dead heroes and
heroines.

Claude Lafont was once more installed in his
painting-room. As of old he dreamed and
painted—painted and dreamed; but when the
shadowy company was not sufficient to fill his
heart and brain, he half woke up from his
reverie and went to the little sitting-room at
the back that opened into a bit of a garden; and
there, in winter by the sparkling fire and clean-
swept hearth; in summer at the open door,
round which trailed a vine, a climbing-rose and
gay vulgar nasturtiums, he re-lighted his pipe,
and half-dreaming, half-listening, heard the
prattle, childish yet strangely wise, of
Edmée, who, as she fluttered about, or sat on
a stool at his feet, thought aloud in her own
wild, suggestive, conjectural way, hitting on
singular glimpses of great truths that could
only come to her intuitively.

By degrees Claude began to dream less
and think more.

Edmée was now fifteen. He felt that she
had become something more than a child and
a plaything, and that a certain responsibility
weighed on him in the care of her, in the
provision for her future. She had learnt, it
is hard to say how, reading and writing since
she had been with him. One day, when he
entered the sitting-room, he found Edmée
with a book on her knees, which she was
studying with a puzzled air.

"What are you reading there, child?" he
enquired, carelessly.

She held up the book. It was a volume of
Voltaire.

"The devil! where did you fish out that
book? But you don't understand it?"

She shook her head.

"Mind this: when you want to read
anything, you must show it to me first—do you
hear, little one?"

She arranged his chair, lighted his pipe, and
sat down at his feet in silence. Claude's eyes
were wide open, and full of earnest reflection.
Once or twice she looked up timidly, but,
meeting no reply to her glance, she dropped
her eyes again.

She said at last, "You're not angry with
me?"

"With you? Never!"

"You see, I am afraid of nothing on
earth but vexing you. I care for nothing on
earth but pleasing you. Between these two
thoughts lay all the cares of my life."

Strange! the pain and the pleasure Claude
felt. He stroked her shining hair, kissed her
forehead, and fell to thinking harder than
ever.

Next day, instead of putting on his dressing-
gown, cap, and slippers, and retiring to his
atelier, he, for the first time for many a long
year at such an hour, donned coat, boots, and
hat, sallied forth, and returned with a small
library—books of history, biography, religion,
and some poetry; all works the most
perfectly suited to the purpose they were
intended for.

"There! you want to read—there are
books enough for you. What do you say to
that hein?"