We had just been told in the grammar lesson to form a sentence in the imperfect tense, to show that we understood the right use of the imperfect. Here I was on my own ground, for I at once made a sentence bringing in _two_ imperfects, and waited in burning impatience for it to be my turn to reply, feeling this time sure of my _jeton_. These “counters” or good-marks were given for every correct answer, and twenty of them made up what was called a _présidence_, twenty of which again entitled to a _brevet_, or certificate with a seal attached, the highest honour of all. I was in two classes, for certain subjects with little girls of my own age, but had been put into a higher one for history, in order that I might learn French history very thoroughly, and this it was that stood in my way, for history was my aversion and dates a stumbling-block to me--I never could remember a single one!--My failures in this field I however made up for in the grammar lesson, which was already my passion, and my lips were quivering with impatience to bring out my example of the imperfect tense. At last the Abbé Gaultier looked in my direction. “Quand j’étais petite, je ne réfléchissais pas!” The good priest came close up to me:--“Et maintenant?” I turned crimson, but blurted out quite honestly: “Maintenant je ne réfléchis pas non plus!”--The whole room burst out laughing, but the professor quietly placed one of the much-coveted red counters before me with the words: “Tenez, mon enfant; violà dix jetons, pour votre jolie phrase et pour votre naïve réponse!” And thanks to this I really did get the brevet at last, of which I had again nearly been deprived by the unlucky history-lesson.