“Do you know what I am doing now, my lad?” asked the old man. “Well, I am selecting some books that you must read carefully. Employ in this way every leisure moment. Remember that books are our best friends. I do not think you will understand this just yet, but one day you will do so, I am sure. In the mean time, promise me to read them,”—the old man kissed the boy twice,—“for Cécile and myself,” he said, kindly; and, as the door closed, the child heard him say, “Poor child, poor child!” The words were the same as at the Jesuits’ College; but by this time Jack had learned why they pitied him. The next morning they started, Labassandre in a most extraordinary costume, dressed, in fact, for an expedition across the Pampas,—high gaiters, a green velvet vest, a knapsack, and a knife in his girdle. The poet was at once solemn and happy: solemn, because he felt that he had accomplished a great duty; happy, because this departure filled him with joy. Charlotte embraced Jack tenderly and with tears. “You will take good care of him, M. Labassandre?” “As of my best note, madame.” Charlotte sobbed. The boy sought to hide his emotion, for the thought of working for his mother had given him courage and strength. At the end of the garden path he turned once more, that he might carry away in his memory a last picture of the house, and the face of the woman who smiled through her tears. “Write often!” cried the mother. And the poet shouted, in stentorian tones, “Remember, Jack, life is not a romance!” Life is not a romance; but was it not one for him? The selfish egotist! He stood on the threshold of his little home, with one hand on Charlotte’s shoulder, the roses in bloom all about him, and he himself in a pose pretentious enough for a photograph, and so radiant at having won the day, that he forgot his hatred, and waved a paternal adieu to the child he had driven from the shelter of his roof. CHAPTER XIII. INDRET. The opera-singer stood upright in the boat and cried, “Is not the scene beautiful, Jack?” It was about four o’clock—a July evening; the waves glittered in the sunlight, and the air palpitated with heat. Large sails, that in the golden atmosphere looked snowy white, passed by from time to time; they were boats from Noirmoutiers, loaded to the brim with sparkling white salt. Peasants in their picturesque costumes were crowded in, and the caps of the women were as white as the salt Other boats were laden with grain. Occasionally a three-masted vessel came slowly up the stream, arriving, perhaps, from the end of the world after a two years’ voyage, and bearing with it something of the poetry and mystery of other lands. A fresh breeze came from the sea, and made one long for the deep blue of the ocean. “And Indret—where is it?” asked Jack. “There, that island opposite.”