"As for her lung trouble, it is very common among women who continually breathe the dust arising from the wool used in mattresses. My godmother is almost bent double, and during her long paroxysms of coughing I am sometimes obliged to support her in my arms for hours." "You alone, then, contribute to her support?" "Certainly, since she is unable to work." "Such devotion on your part is very generous." "I only do my duty, monsieur. She gave me shelter after my parents died, and paid for my three years of apprenticeship in the shop. Is it not just that I should now care for her?" "You must work very hard to earn sufficiently." "From fifteen to eighteen hours a day." "And instead of taking a much needed rest at night, you watch over your godmother?" "Who would care for her if I did not?" "Why not try to place her in the hospital?" "She would not be admitted, as her case is incurable. Besides, I scarcely think I would have the courage to desert her thus." "You are indeed a noble girl, my child, and I judged you rightly," declared the old man, grasping her hand in his. "Oh! my God!" cried Mariette, as she saw his sleeve catch the inkstand, spilling the contents over the precious letter. "Ah! monsieur, what a misfortune!" "What awkwardness!" exclaimed the writer angrily. "But never mind, I can copy it in a very few minutes. I shall read it aloud as I go on, so that you may suggest any change you may think proper." "I am so grieved to give you all this trouble," she murmured, evidently much distressed. "It serves me right, my dear,--I alone am to blame." As he resumed his work, a violent internal conflict seemed reflected on his features; from time to time a sigh of relief and satisfaction escaped his lips; then again he appeared confused and avoided Mariette's limpid gaze; while she leaned on the table, her head supported on one hand, anxiously and enviously following the rapid pen of the writer, as he traced the magic characters that would convey her thoughts to her lover. "How much do I owe you, monsieur?" she asked timidly, when he had folded the missive and addressed it. "Fifty centimes," rejoined the old man, after a moment of hesitation, "and remember that I charge you for one of the letters only. I alone am responsible for my awkwardness." "You are very kind, monsieur," said Mariette, touched by what she considered a proof of generosity on his part. "Indeed," she added, as she replaced her slender purse into her pocket, "you have been so good to me that I shall ask you a very great service--" "Go on, my child." "If I have more letters to send, it will be almost impossible for me to go to a stranger--" "I shall always be at your service, my child."