“Couldn’t you find any paper in the schoolhouse without tearing a leaf out of my memorandum book, Melissa?” he asked. “It ain’t out of your memorandum book,” responded M’liss fiercely. “Indeed,” said the master, turning to the lines in pencil; “I thought it was my handwriting.” M’liss, who had been looking over his shoulder, suddenly seized the paper and snatched it out of his hand. “It’s father’s writing!” she said, after a pause, in a softer tone. “Where did you get it, M’liss?” “Aristides gave it to me.” “Where did he get it?” “Don’t know. He had the book in his pocket when I told him I was going to write to you, and he tore the leaf out. There now—don’t bother me any more.” M’liss had turned her face away, and the black hair had hid her downcast eyes. Something in her gesture and expression reminded him of her father. Something, and more that was characteristic to her at such moments, made him fancy another resemblance, and caused him to ask impulsively, and less cautiously than was his wont:— “Do you remember your mother, M’liss?” “No.” “Did you never see her?” “No—didn’t I tell you not to bother, and you’re a-goin’ and doin’ it,” said M’liss savagely. The master was silent a moment. “Did you ever think you would like to have a mother, M’liss?” he asked again. “No-o-o-o!” The master rose; M’liss looked up. “Does Aristides come to school to-day?” “I don’t know.” “Are you going back? You’d better,” she said. “Well!—perhaps I may. Good-by!” He had proceeded a few steps when, as he expected, she called him back. He turned. She was standing by the tree, with tears glistening in her eyes. The master felt the right moment had come. Going up to her, he took both her hands in his, and looking in her tearful eyes, said gravely:— “M’liss, do you remember the first evening you came to see me?” M’liss remembered. “You asked me if you might come to school, and I said—” “Come!” responded the child softly. “If I told you I was lonely without my little scholar, and that I wanted her to come, what would you say?” The child hung her head in silence. The master waited patiently. Tempted by the quiet, a hare ran close to the couple, and raising her bright eyes and velvet fore paws, gazed at them fearlessly. A squirrel ran halfway down the furrowed bark of the fallen tree, and there stopped. “_We_ are waiting, Lissy,” said the master in a whisper, and the child smiled. Stirred by a passing breeze, the treetops rocked, and a slanting sunbeam stole through their interlaced boughs and fell on the doubting face and irresolute little figure. But a step in the dry branches and a rustling in the underbrush broke the spell.