“You will drink a glass of wine, Father Archambauld. Drink to the health of my little boy. Is he not nice? Will you take him with you sometimes into the forest?” And as he drank his wine, this tawny giant, who was the terror of the poachers throughout the country, looked about the room with that restless glance acquired in his nightly watchings in the forest, and answered timidly,— “That I will, Madame d’Argenton.” This name of D’Argenton, thus given to his mother, mystified our little friend. But as he had no very accurate idea of either the duties or dignities of life, he soon ceased to take any notice of his mother’s new title, and became absorbed in a rough game of play with the two dogs under the table. The old couple had just gone, when a carriage was heard at the door. “Is it you, doctor?” cried Ida from within, in joyous greeting, “Yes, madame; I come to learn something about your sick son, of whose arrival I have heard.” Jack looked inquisitively at the large, kindly face crowned by snowy locks. The doctor wore a coat down to his heels, and had a rolling walk, the result of twenty years of sea-life as a surgeon. “Your boy is all right, madame. I was afraid, from what I heard through my servant, that he and you might require my services.” What good people these all were, and how thankful little Jack felt that he had forever left that detestable school! When the doctor left, the house was bolted and barred, and the mother and child went tranquilly to their bedroom. There, while Jack slept, Ida wrote to D’Argenton a long letter, telling him of her son’s arrival, and seeking to arouse his sympathy for the little lonely fellow, whose gentle, regular breathing she heard at her side. She was more at her ease when two days later came a reply from her poet. Although full of reproaches and of allusions to her maternal weakness, and to the undisciplined nature of her child, the letter was less terrible than she had anticipated. In fact, D’Argenton concluded that it was well to be relieved of the enormous expenses at the academy, and while disapproving of the escapade, he thought it no great misfortune, as the Institution was rapidly running down. “Had he not left it?” As to the child’s fixture, it should be his care, and when he returned a week later, they would consult together as to what plan to adopt. Never did Jack, in his whole life, as child or man, pass such a week of utter happiness. His mother belonged to him alone. He had the dogs and the goat, the forest and the rabbits, and yet he did not leave his mother for many minutes at a time. He followed her wherever she went, laughed when she laughed without asking why, and was altogether content. Another letter. “He will come to-morrow!”