Well! as we were all laughing at its poverty and comical appearance--you must have laughed yourself, Nelly--who should come in but Blight? In a few strong words she made us ashamed of our unfeeling mirth, and brought the color still more to our tingling cheeks by running up stairs and bringing down one of her own pocket-handkerchiefs, which she bade us slip unperceived into poor old Penn's coat pocket. We watched him from the window. The old gentleman pulled out his handkerchief as soon as he left the house, but, perceiving the substitution, his head dropped, poor fellow, and we saw him with the handkerchief held up to his eyes until he turned the corner. Ever since then, no more tricks have been played with our writing-master. His poverty, unlike with most men, has been his friend--and a very good friend, too. Contributions have been dropped in the same poor-box for his relief, until the old gentleman has grown comparatively quite a dandy; one of Noble's black satin aprons has found him in stocks for months, and Blight is always knitting comfortable muffetees, slippers, and chest-protectors for him in the winter. We picture to ourselves the old man emptying his pockets when he gets home, and his surprise at finding the little gifts (and cake sometimes) they contain. We are happy in the pleasure we know we give him. He never says a word, but merely looks his thanks. We feel his gratitude in the increased kindness we receive from him. He calls us his "angels," and we know directly what he means; if he said more, O Lord! how we should all cry, and he, perhaps, more than any of us. He is here, Nelly, mostly all day long; but doesn't dine with us. The Lady Principal sends him out a plateful, heaped up with almost insulting profusion, as if she were sending it out to a beggar. Perhaps she isn't wrong, however, for it is all eaten. He carries down the tray himself, that none may see how clean his plate has been polished. I need not tell you, Nell, dear, that we all are fond of poor Penn. He is so kind, so gentlemanly, so patient, acting to us more like a parent than a teacher. Besides, he sets us the strangest copies, the oddest problems--things never heard of in a school before--but reconciling us to our tasks by making us laugh, and interesting the dullest pupil. You won't credit it; but that conceited thing Twigg fancies him in love with her. She dresses out her ringlets as long as spaniel's ears, and puts on cherry neck-ribbons when he comes. All day long is she pestering him to mend her pen, and to explain away difficulties about _x_ in algebra; just as if a man could be bothered into love! Penn takes it all very good-temperedly; but I imagine it would bring his wig prematurely to the grave, if he was told that he was going to marry Twigg.