All unconscious of the unpalatable criticism her engagement had excited, Cecil rose the next morning prepared to take the first favourable opportunity of breaking the news to her pupil; but she was somewhat startled when he himself, in the midst of his lessons, paved the way for the disclosure. “Mademoiselle,” he said, suddenly, looking up from the essay he was writing on the character of Peter the Great, “what makes you so happy?” “Am I any happier than usual, Bey?” asked Cecil, with a start and a blush. Her pupil studied her face curiously and deliberately. “Yes, mademoiselle, I am sure of it. When we were out in the garden an hour ago, you walked as though you wished to dance, and you were all the time singing tunes in a whisper, and just now you sat like this, and looked at the wall and smiled,” and Azim Bey supported his chin upon one hand, and pursed up his solemn little face into a ludicrous imitation of Cecil’s far-away gaze and the smile that had accompanied it. “Dear me, Bey, how closely you watch me!” said Cecil, uncomfortably, feeling that she was not carrying out her determination of the night before at all in the proper way. “I am afraid you have not been working very hard. How far have you got with Peter?” “I have finished all but his influence upon the Greek Church, mademoiselle. You looked so happy that I felt I must stop to ask you about it. But I will finish Peter, and then we can have some more talk.” “Don’t you think I ought to be happy to be back here after being away for two whole days?” asked Cecil, lightly, trying to turn aside the subject with a laugh; but Azim Bey bent upon her a severe gaze from under his black brows, and answered solemnly-- “No, mademoiselle; for I watched your face when you went away, and it was not sad. I am convinced that your happiness has nothing to do with me. Now I will finish my essay.”