style="font-size:15px;"> "She used to work in a mattress factory, monsieur, and one day she ran a long, crooked needle into her hand. The wound became inflamed from want of care, for my godmother had not time to give it the attention it should have had, and the doctors were obliged to cut her arm off. The wound reopens now and then, and causes her a great deal of pain."
"Poor woman!" murmured the scrivener, absently.
"As for the lung trouble she has," continued Mariette, "many women who follow that trade contract the disease, the doctors say, from breathing the unwholesome dust from the old mattresses they make over. My godmother is bent almost double, and nearly every night she has such terrible fits of coughing that I have to hold her for hours, sometimes."
"And your godmother has nothing but your earnings to depend on?"
"She cannot work now, monsieur, of course."
"Such devotion on your part is very generous, I must say."
"I am only doing my duty, monsieur. My godmother took care of me after my parents died, and paid for a three years' apprenticeship for me. But for her, I should not be in a position to earn my living, so it is only right that she should profit now by the assistance she gave me years ago."
"But you must have to work very hard to support her and yourself?"
"Yes; I have to work from fifteen to eighteen hours a day, monsieur."
"And at night you have to nurse her instead of taking the rest you so much need?"
"Who else would nurse her, monsieur?"
"But why doesn't she try to get into some hospital?"
"They will not take her into a hospital because the lung trouble she has is incurable. Besides, I could not desert her like that."
"Ah, well, my child, I see that I was not mistaken. You are a good, noble-hearted girl, there is no doubt of it," added the old man, holding out his hand to Mariette.
As he did, either through awkwardness, or intentionally, the scrivener overturned the inkstand that stood on his desk in such a way that a good part of the contents ran over the letter, which lacked only the address to complete it.
"Good heavens! How unfortunate, the letter is covered with ink, monsieur!" exclaimed Mariette.
"How awkward in me!" responded the old man, with a disgusted air. "Still, it doesn't matter very much, after all. It was a short letter. I write very rapidly, and it will not take me more than ten minutes to copy it for you, my child. At the same time, I will read it aloud so you can see if there is any change you would like to make in it."
"I am truly sorry to give you so much trouble, monsieur."
"It serves me right, as it was all my fault," responded the old man, cheerfully.
And he began to read the letter aloud as he wrote, exactly as if he were recopying it, as he proceeded with the reading. Nevertheless, from the scrivener's manner it seemed evident that a violent struggle was going on in his breast, for sometimes he sighed and knit his brows, sometimes he seemed confused and kept his eyes sedulously averted from the ingenuous face of Mariette, who sat with one elbow resting upon the table, and her head supported on her hand, watching with envious eyes the rapid movements of the old man's pen, as it traced characters which were undecipherable to her, but which would, as she fondly supposed, convey her thoughts to the man she loved.
The young girl expressing no desire to make the slightest change in her artless missive, the scrivener handed it to her after having carefully sealed it.
"And now, monsieur, how much do I owe you?" timidly inquired the girl, drawing a little purse containing two small silver corns and a few sous from her pocket.
"Fifty centimes," replied the old man after a moment's hesitation, remembering, perhaps, that it was at the cost of a day's bread that the poor girl was writing to her lover; "fifty centimes," repeated the scrivener, "for you understand, of course, my child, that I expect you to pay for only one of the letters I have written. I alone am responsible for my awkwardness."
"You are certainly very honest, monsieur," said Mariette, touched by what she considered a proof of generosity on the part of the scrivener. Then, after having paid for her letter, she added:
"You have been so kind to me, monsieur, that I shall venture to ask a favour of you."
"Speak, my child."
"If I have any other letters to write, it would be almost impossible for me to apply to any one but you, monsieur."
"I shall be at your service."
"But this is not all, monsieur. My godmother is as I am. She can neither read nor write. I had a friend I could depend upon, but she is out of town. In case I should receive a letter from M. Louis, would you be kind enough to read it to me?"
"Certainly, my child. I will read your letters to you with pleasure. Bring them all to me," replied the old man, with much inward gratification. "It is I who should thank you for the confidence you manifest in me. I hope I shall soon see you again, and that you leave here much more easy in mind than when you came."
"I certainly could not expect such kindness as you have shown me from any one else."
"Farewell, then, my child, and be sure that you consider me your reader and secretary henceforth. It really seems as if we must have known each other a dozen years."
"That is true, monsieur. Au revoir."
"Au revoir, my child."
Mariette had hardly left the booth when a postman appeared in the doorway, and holding out a letter to the old scrivener, said, cordially:
"Here, Father Richard, is a letter from Dreux."
"A letter from Dreux!" exclaimed the old man, seizing it eagerly. "Thank you, my friend." Then, examining the handwriting, he said to himself: "It is from Ramon! What is he going to tell me? What does he think of my son? Ah! what is going to become of all the fine plans Ramon and I formed so long ago?"
"There are six sous to pay on it, Father Richard," said the postman, arousing the old scrivener from his reverie.
"Six sous! the devil! isn't it prepaid?"
"Look at the stamp, Father Richard."
"True," said the scrivener, sighing heavily, as he reluctantly drew the ten sous piece he had just received from his pocket and handed it to the postman.
While this was going on, Mariette was hastening homeward.
CHAPTER II.
A TOUCHING EXAMPLE OF UNSELFISH DEVOTION.
Mariette soon reached the gloomy and sombre thoroughfare known as the Rue des Prêtres St. Germain-l'Auxerrois, and entered one of the houses opposite the grim walls of the church. After traversing a dark alley, the girl
