"Poor child! your history is very similar to that of most young girls of your station in life. But, since your term of apprenticeship expired, have you made no effort to acquire a little education?" "Since that time I have had to work all day and far into the night to earn enough to keep my godmother and myself alive, monsieur," said Mariette, sadly. "Alas! yes, time is bread to the labourer, and only too often he has to choose whether he shall die of hunger or live in ignorance." Then, becoming more and more interested, he added: "You spoke of your godmother just now; so your father and mother are both dead, I suppose?" "Yes, as I told you a little while ago," replied Mariette, sadly. "But pardon me, monsieur, for taking up so much of your time instead of telling you at once what I want you to write for me." "I am sure my time could not have been better spent, for I am an old man, and I have had a good deal of experience, and I feel sure that you are a good and worthy girl. But now about the letter. Do you prefer to give me a rough idea of what you wish to write and let me put it in my own words, or do you prefer to dictate the letter?" "I would rather dictate it, monsieur." "Then I am ready," said the old man, putting on his spectacles, and seating himself at his desk with his eyes fixed upon the paper so as not to increase his client's embarrassment by looking at her. So, after a moment's hesitation, Mariette, with downcast eyes, proceeded to dictate, as follows: "Monsieur Louis." On hearing this name, the old scrivener made a slight movement of surprise,--a fact that was not noticed by Mariette, who repeated, in a less trembling voice this time, "Monsieur Louis." "I have written that," said the scrivener, still without looking at Mariette, whereupon the latter continued, hesitating every now and then, for, in spite of her confidence in the old man, it was no easy matter to reveal her secret thoughts to him: "I am greatly troubled, for I have heard nothing from you, though you promised to write me while you were away." "While you were away," repeated the scrivener, whose face had suddenly become thoughtful, and who was saying to himself, with a vague anxiety: "This is a singular coincidence. His name is Louis, and he is away." "I hope you are well, M. Louis," Mariette continued, "and that it is not on account of any illness that you have not written to me, for then I should have two causes of anxiety instead of one.