A seat at the opposite end of the walk was Amy’s haunt, for she liked the sun, and within a week or two something like constraint had existed between the cousins. Each seemed happier apart, and each was intent on her own affairs. Helen watched over Amy’s health, but no longer offered advice or asked confidence. She often looked anxious, and once or twice urged the major to go, as if conscious of some danger. But the worthy man seemed to have been bewitched as well as the young folks, and was quite happy sitting by the plump, placid widow, or leisurely walking with her to the chapel on the hillside. All seemed waiting for something to break up the party, and no one had the courage to do it. The major’s decision took every one by surprise, and Amy and Casimer looked as if they had fallen from the clouds. The persistency with which the English lessons had gone on was amazing, for Amy usually tired of everything in a day or two. Now, however, she was a devoted teacher, and her pupil did her great credit by the rapidity with which he caught the language. It looked like pleasant play, sitting among the roses day after day, Amy affecting to embroider while she taught, Casimer marching to and fro on the wide, low wall, below which lay the lake, while he learned his lesson; then standing before her to recite, or lounging on the turf in frequent fits of idleness, both talking and laughing a great deal, and generally forgetting everything but the pleasure of being together. They wrote little notes as exercises—Amy in French, Casimer in English, and each corrected the other’s. All very well for a time; but as the notes increased the corrections decreased, and at last nothing was said of ungrammatical French or comical English, and the little notes were exchanged in silence. As Amy took her place that day she looked forlorn, and when her pupil came her only welcome was a reproachful— “You are very late, sir.” “It is fifteen of minutes yet to ten clocks,” was Casimer’s reply, in his best English. “Ten o’clock, and leave out ‘of’ before minutes. How many times must I tell you that?” said Amy, severely, to cover her first mistake. “Ah, not many times; soon all goes to finish, and I have none person to make this charming English go in my so stupide head.” “What will you do then?” “I _jeter_ myself into the lake.” “Don’t be foolish; I’m dull to-day, and want to be cheered up; suicide isn’t a pleasant subject.” “Good! See here, then—a little _plaisanterie_—what you call joke. Can you will to see it?” and he laid a little pink cocked-hat note on her lap, looking like a mischievous boy as he did so. “‘Mon Casimer Teblinski;’ I see no joke;” and Amy was about to tear it up, when he caught it from destruction, and holding it out of reach, said, laughing wickedly,—