But now at last I had him: there he was—the very brownie himself; and there, curling from his lips, was the pale blue breath of his Indian darling: he was smoking into my desk: it might well betray him. Provoked at this particular, and yet pleased to surprise him—pleased, that is, with the mixed feeling of the housewife who discovers at last her strange elfin ally busy in the dairy at the untimely churn—I softly stole forward, stood behind him, bent with precaution over his shoulder. My heart smote me to see that—after this morning’s hostility, after my seeming remissness, after the puncture experienced by his feelings, and the ruffling undergone by his temper—he, all willing to forget and forgive, had brought me a couple of handsome volumes, of which the title and authorship were guarantees for interest. Now, as he sat bending above the desk, he was stirring up its contents; but with gentle and careful hand; disarranging indeed, but not harming. My heart smote me: as I bent over him, as he sat unconscious, doing me what good he could, and I daresay not feeling towards me unkindly, my morning’s anger quite melted: I did not dislike Professor Emanuel. I think he heard me breathe. He turned suddenly: his temperament was nervous, yet he never started, and seldom changed colour: there was something hardy about him. “I thought you were gone into town with the other teachers,” said he, taking a grim gripe of his self-possession, which half-escaped him—“It is as well you are not. Do you think I care for being caught? Not I. I often visit your desk.” “Monsieur, I know it.” “You find a brochure or tome now and then; but you don’t read them, because they have passed under this?”—touching his cigar. “They have, and are no better for the process; but I read them.” “Without pleasure?” “Monsieur must not be contradicted.” “Do you like them, or any of them?—are they acceptable?” “Monsieur has seen me reading them a hundred times, and knows I have not so many recreations as to undervalue those he provides.” “I mean well; and, if you see that I mean well, and derive some little amusement from my efforts, why can we not be friends?” “A fatalist would say—because we cannot.” “This morning,” he continued, “I awoke in a bright mood, and came into classe happy; you spoiled my day.” “No, Monsieur, only an hour or two of it, and that unintentionally.” “Unintentionally! No. It was my fête-day; everybody wished me happiness but you. The little children of the third division gave each her knot of violets, lisped each her congratulation:—you—nothing. Not a bud, leaf, whisper—not a glance. Was this unintentional?” “I meant no harm.” “Then you really did not know our custom? You were unprepared? You would willingly have laid out a few centimes on a flower to give me pleasure, had you been aware that it was expected? Say so, and all is forgotten, and the pain soothed.”