"Quoi, quoi, quoi?" said I, quacking like a duck. "Le nord--c'est revenu--it's just ahead of us--a little to the left!" We were nearing Paris. And thus ended the proudest and happiest time I ever had in my life. Indeed I almost had an adventure on my own account--_une bonne fortune_, as it was called at Brossard's by boys hardly older than myself. I did not brag of it, however, when I got back to school. It was at "Les Laiteries," or "Les Poteries," or "Les Crucheries," or some such place, the charming abode of Monsieur et Madame Pélisson--only their name wasn't Pélisson, or anything like it. At dinner I sat next to a Miss ----, who was very tall and wore blond side ringlets. I think she must have been the English governess. We talked very much together, in English; and after dinner we walked in the garden together by starlight arm in arm, and she was so kind and genial to me in English that I felt quite chivalrous and romantic, and ready to do doughty deeds for her sake. Then, at M. Pélisson's request, all the company assembled in a group for evening prayer, under a spreading chestnut-tree on the lawn: the prayer sounded very much like the morning or evening prayer at Brossard's, except that the Almighty was addressed as "toi" instead of "vous"; it began: "Notre Père qui es aux cieux--toi dont le regard scrutateur pénètre jusque dans les replis les plus profonds de nos coeurs"--and ended, "Ainsi soit-il!" The night was very dark, and I stood close to Miss ----, who stood as it seemed with her hands somewhere behind her back. I was so grateful to her for having talked to me so nicely, and so fond of her for being English, that the impulse seized me to steal my hand into hers--and her hand met mine with a gentle squeeze which I returned; but soon the pressure of her hand increased, and by the time M. le Curé had got to "au nom du Père" the pressure of her hand had become an agony--a thing to make one shriek! "Ainsi soit-il!" said M. le Curé, and the little group broke up, and Miss ---- walked quietly indoors with her arm around Madame Pélisson's waist, and without even wishing me good-night--and my hand was being squeezed worse than ever. "Ah ha! Lequel de nous deux est volé, petit coquin?" hissed an angry male voice in my ear--(which of us two is sold, you little rascal?). And I found my hand in that of Monsieur Pélisson, whose name was something else--and I couldn't make it out, nor why he was so angry. It has dawned upon me since that each of us took the other's hand by Mistake for that of the English governess! All this is beastly and cynical and French, and I apologize for it--but it's true. * * * * * October! It was a black Monday for me when school began again after that ideal vacation. The skies they were ashen and sober, and the leaves they were crisped and sere. But anyhow I was still _en quatrième_, and Barty was in it too--and we sat next to each other in "L'étude des grands."