"To-day is the sixth of May, M. Louis, the sixth of May, so I could not let the day pass without writing to you. Perhaps the same thought will occur to you, and that day after to-morrow I shall receive a letter from you, as you will receive one from me. Then I shall know that it was not on account of forgetfulness or sickness that you have delayed writing to me so long. In that case, how happy I shall be! So I shall wait for day after to-morrow with great impatience. Heaven grant that I may not be disappointed, M. Louis." Mariette stifled a sigh as she uttered these last words, and a tear rolled down her cheek. A long pause followed. The features of the scrivener who was bending over his desk could not be seen by the young girl, but they were assuming a more and more anxious expression; and two or three times he tried to steal a furtive glance at his client, as if the interest he had felt in her had given place to a sort of distrust caused by grave apprehensions on his part. The young woman, keeping her eyes still fixed upon her lap, continued: "I have no news to tell you, M. Louis. My godmother is still very ill. Her sufferings seem to increase, and that renders her much more irritable. In order that I may be with her as much as possible, I sew at home now most of the time, instead of going to Madame Jourdan's, so the days seem long and gloomy; for the work done in the shop with my companions was almost a pleasure, and seemed to progress much more rapidly. So I am obliged to work far into the night now, and do not get much sleep, as my godmother suffers much more at night than in the daytime, and requires a great deal of attention from me. Sometimes I do not even wake when she calls me because I am so dead with sleep, and then she scolds, which is very natural when she suffers so. "You can understand, of course, that my life at home is not very happy, and that a friendly word from you would be a great comfort, and console me for many things that are very unpleasant. "Good-bye, M. Louis. I expected to have written to you through Augustine, but she has gone back to her home now, and I have been obliged to apply to another person, to whom I have dictated this letter. Ah, M. Louis, never have I realised the misfortune of not knowing how to read or write as much as I do at this present time. "Farewell, M. Louis, think of me, I beg of you, for I am always thinking of you. "With sincere affection I once more bid you adieu." As the young girl remained silent for a minute or two after these words, the old man turned to her and asked: "Is that all, my child?" "Yes, monsieur." "And what name is to be signed to this letter?" "The name of Mariette, monsieur." "Mariette only?" "Mariette Moreau, if you think best, monsieur. That is my family name." "Signed, Mariette Moreau," said the old man, writing the name as he spoke. Then, having folded the letter, he asked, concealing the secret anxiety with which he awaited the girl's reply: