Had I been too hasty? I used to ask myself; and this question would occur with a cruel sharpness after some brief chance interview with Dr. John. He had still such kind looks, such a warm hand; his voice still kept so pleasant a tone for my name; I never liked “Lucy” so well as when he uttered it. But I learned in time that this benignity, this cordiality, this music, belonged in no shape to me: it was a part of himself; it was the honey of his temper; it was the balm of his mellow mood; he imparted it, as the ripe fruit rewards with sweetness the rifling bee; he diffused it about him, as sweet plants shed their perfume. Does the nectarine love either the bee or bird it feeds? Is the sweetbriar enamoured of the air? “Good-night, Dr. John; you are good, you are beautiful; but you are not mine. Good-night, and God bless you!” Thus I closed my musings. “Good-night” left my lips in sound; I heard the words spoken, and then I heard an echo—quite close. “Good-night, Mademoiselle; or, rather, good-evening—the sun is scarce set; I hope you slept well?” I started, but was only discomposed a moment; I knew the voice and speaker. “Slept, Monsieur! When? where?” “You may well inquire when—where. It seems you turn day into night, and choose a desk for a pillow; rather hard lodging—?” “It was softened for me, Monsieur, while I slept. That unseen, gift-bringing thing which haunts my desk, remembered me. No matter how I fell asleep; I awoke pillowed and covered.” “Did the shawls keep you warm?” “Very warm. Do you ask thanks for them?” “No. You looked pale in your slumbers: are you home-sick?” “To be home-sick, one must have a home; which I have not.” “Then you have more need of a careful friend. I scarcely know any one, Miss Lucy, who needs a friend more absolutely than you; your very faults imperatively require it. You want so much checking, regulating, and keeping down.” This idea of “keeping down” never left M. Paul’s head; the most habitual subjugation would, in my case, have failed to relieve him of it. No matter; what did it signify? I listened to him, and did not trouble myself to be too submissive; his occupation would have been gone had I left him nothing to “keep down.” “You need watching, and watching over,” he pursued; “and it is well for you that I see this, and do my best to discharge both duties. I watch you and others pretty closely, pretty constantly, nearer and oftener than you or they think. Do you see that window with a light in it?” He pointed to a lattice in one of the college boarding-houses. “That,” said he, “is a room I have hired, nominally for a study—virtually for a post of observation. There I sit and read for hours together: it is my way—my taste. My book is this garden; its contents are human nature—female human nature. I know you all by heart. Ah! I know you well—St. Pierre, the Parisienne—cette maîtresse-femme, my cousin Beck herself.” “It is not right, Monsieur.”