It was upon her acquaintances that Ralph placed the blame when she erred. Fanchette was one of these--the dame of a student from Bretagne, a worldly, plotting, masculine woman--the only one whom he permitted to visit her. It was Fanchette who loaned her money when she was indolent, and who prompted her to ask favors beyond his means. Toward the end of every month Ralph's money ran out, and then he was petulant and often upbraided her. Those were the only times when he essayed to study, and he would not walk with her of evenings, so destitute. Then Fanchette amused her: "Sew in my room," she would say; "Ralph will come for you at eight o'clock." But Ralph never went, and Fanchette poisoned his little girl's mind. "When will you leave Paris, baby?" said Suzette one evening, as she returned from her friend's and found him sitting moodily by the fire. "Very soon," he replied crisply; "that is, if ever I have money or resolution enough to start." "Won't you take me with you, little one?" "No!" "You don't love me any more!" "Pish!" "Kiss me, my boy!" "Oh, go away, you bother me--you always bother me when my money is low. Haven't I told you about it before?" But the next morning as Suzette made her toilet, older and more silently, he felt repentant, and called her to him, and they talked a long while of nothingnesses. He had a cruel way of playing with her feelings. "Suzette," he would say, "would you like me to take you to my country and live with you forever?" "Very much, my child!" "My father has a beautiful farm, which he means to give to me. There is a grand old house upon it, and from the high porch you can see the blue bay speckled with sails. The orchards are filled with apples and pears. You must walk an hour to get around the corn-fields, and there is a picnic ground in the beech-woods, where we might entertain our friends. I have many friends. How jolly you would look in my big rocking-chair, before the fireplace blazing with logs, and with your lap full of chestnuts, telling me of Paris life!" She was drinking it all in, and the blood was ripe in her cheeks. "Think, little one," he said, "of passing our days there, you and I! I have made you my wife, for example; I paint great pictures; you are proud of me; everybody respects you; you have your saddle-horse and your tea-parties; you learn to be ashamed of what you were; you are anxious to be better--not in people's eyes only, but in mine, in your own. To do good deeds; to sit in the church hearing good counsel; to be patted upon the forehead by my father--his daughter!--and to call my brother your brother also. Thus honored, contented, good, your hairs turn gray with mine. We walk along hand in hand so evenly that we do not perceive how old we are growing. We may forget everything but our love; that remains when we are gone--a part of our children's inheritance."