"To-day is the sixth of May, Monsieur Louis--_the sixth of May_--and I would not let the day pass without reminding you of me. Perhaps you had the same thought also, and I may receive a letter from you when you receive this from me, the day after to-morrow. Then I shall know that the delay was not caused by illness or forgetfulness, and how happy I shall be! I shall therefore await the day after to-morrow with much impatience. May heaven protect me from disappointment, Monsieur Louis--" Mariette stifled a sigh and wiped a tear from her pale cheek. The features of the writer, who still bent low over his desk, were invisible to the young girl, and she was unconscious of the expression of alarm that had crept over them. Two or three times, while writing, he had cast furtive, scrutinizing glances at his client; and it was evident that his first impulse of sympathetic interest was changing to restraint caused by serious apprehensions. Folding her hands once more on her lap, Mariette resumed: "I have nothing new to tell you, Monsieur Louis. My godmother is still ill, she suffers very much, and the torture she undergoes embitters her character more and more. That I may be near her as much as possible, I now work at home instead of going to Mme. Jourdan. The days seem wretchedly long and sad, for working at the shop with my companions is much more cheerful, and I can accomplish more. I am therefore obliged to stay up very late; and I sleep but little, as my godmother always suffers more at night and, consequently needs more care. Sometimes I fail to hear her first call, I sleep so soundly; then she scolds me, which is only natural when she suffers so much. "I tell you these things to show you that my life is not a happy one, and that one word of friendship from you would encourage and console me for so many sad things. "Farewell, Monsieur Louis. I counted on Augustine to write; but she has gone away and I am dictating this letter to another person. Ah! never have I so much regretted my inability to read and write as at this moment. Farewell, once more, Monsieur Louis; think of me I beg you, for I think of you always." "Is this all, my child?" queried the old man, after a moment of silence. "Yes, monsieur." "And what name shall I sign?" "Mariette." "Mariette only?" "Mariette Moreau, if you please." "Mariette Moreau," repeated the old man, as he inscribed the name. Then folding the letter, he made a violent effort to conceal the secret anguish with which he awaited the reply to his question, and asked: "To whom shall I address it?" "To M. Louis Richard, at Dreux, to be called for." "No more doubt of it," thought the old man, as he prepared to address the letter.