On a beautiful, bright morning of the month of May, 18—, a young girl of eighteen years or thereabouts, whose pale, melancholy face reflected only too plainly the wretchedness and privations of her daily life, was wending her way, timidly and with hesitating steps, through that populous quarter of the city known as the Charnier des Innocents, a dreary spot, principally noted for its large number of public scribes, who make a precarious living by acting as secretaries to the ignorant people of the vicinity.

Two or three times she paused, undecided, before an open door; then, thinking perhaps that the writer was either too young or unprepossessing, she slowly resumed her search. She had reached the last of the row, and was on the point of retracing her steps, when her gaze fell on a venerable old man, whose benign countenance beamed kindly on her from his desk; and without further hesitation she resolutely entered the little shop.

Struck by the touching beauty and modest attitude of the young girl, the scribe greeted her with paternal affability, and discreetly drawing the curtain over the dingy window, motioned her to a seat, while he sank back into his old leather-covered arm-chair and waited for her to speak.

The girl's pretty face flushed and she cast down her large, blue eyes in embarrassment, while a painful silence followed. She was evidently agitated by a deep emotion, for her breast heaved visibly beneath the worn merino shawl she wore over her faded gingham dress, and her hands trembled slightly as she folded them on her lap.

"Why this embarrassment, my dear child?" said the old man kindly. "Do you wish me to draw up a petition, a request, or write a letter?"

"Yes, monsieur, I want a letter written," she replied in a low, soft voice, her face flushing still more painfully.

"Can you not write?"

She shook her head and cast down her eyes once more.

Fearing he had needlessly humiliated his client, the old man hastened to add:

"Poor child, do you suppose me capable of blaming your ignorance?"

"Monsieur!—" she began in protestation.

"Ah! believe me," he interrupted, "I feel a great deal of compassion for persons who, having no education, are forced to have recourse to men of my profession, to admit them into their confidence, and reveal their most secret and dearest thoughts! It is very painful, is it not?"

"Yes, indeed, monsieur!" exclaimed the girl, touched by these words.
"To be obliged to address myself to a stranger, to—"

Her eyes filled with tears and she paused in confusion.

"My dear child, pray recover your composure," entreated the scribe. "You need fear neither indiscretion nor ridicule with me. The confidence reposed in me by persons whom chance or misfortune has deprived of the benefits of education, has always been considered as sacred to me."

"Oh! thank you, monsieur; you relieve me of half my grief by understanding and excusing my embarrassment," said Mariette, gratefully. "Oh! yes," she went on with a sigh, "it is very cruel to know neither how to read nor write; but alas! it is not my fault."

"Ah! my poor child, like many others who come to me, it is the want of opportunity, and not the absence of good will, which has deprived you of knowledge. Some are forced to assume the care of younger brothers and sisters while the parents work; others are sent out as apprentices at an early age—"

"I was placed as an apprentice at the age of nine," sighed Mariette, "and until that time I was retained at home to care for a little brother, who died shortly before my parents."

"Poor child, your story is similar to those of your companions that come to me. But why did you not try to gain some education when you had finished your apprenticeship?"

"Where would I find the time, monsieur? I work almost day and night to provide for my godmother and myself—"

"Time, alas! is the bread of the poor!" broke in the old man; "they must starve to death or live in ignorance."

He paused for a moment, then asked with renewed interest: "You speak of your godmother; have you no other relative?"

"No, Monsieur," replied the girl sadly.

"But forgive me, I am taking up your time uselessly instead of coming to the purpose of my visit."

"My time could not be better employed than in listening to you, my child; for I am sure you are a good and honest girl. Now let us see about the letter. Will you merely state what you wish to write, or do you prefer to dictate to me?"

"I prefer to dictate the letter."

"Very well, I am ready," declared the old man, adjusting his glasses and bending over his desk that he might not increase his pretty client's confusion.

With down-cast eyes, and after a moment of hesitation, Mariette began:

"Monsieur Louis—"

At the name of Louis the old man started, but said quietly: "It is written, my child."

Nothwithstanding her confidence in the old man, the girl instinctively shrank from revealing her inmost thoughts to a stranger. But after a momentary pause, she went on hesitatingly:

"I have received no word from you, and I am very sad. Yet, you had promised to write during your voyage—"

"During your voyage," repeated the writer, who had become suddenly thoughtful. "A strange coincidence," he said to himself, with growing anxiety. "His name is Louis, and he is away."

"I hope that you are well," continued the girl, "and that your silence is not caused by illness, for my grief would be doubled."

"To-day is the sixth of May, Monsieur Louis—the sixth of May—and I would not let the day pass without reminding you of me. Perhaps you had the same thought also, and I may receive a letter from you when you receive this from me, the day after to-morrow. Then I shall know that the delay was not caused by illness or forgetfulness, and how happy I shall be! I shall therefore await the day after to-morrow with much impatience. May heaven protect me from disappointment, Monsieur Louis—"

Mariette stifled a sigh and wiped a tear from her pale cheek.

The features of the writer, who still bent low over his desk, were invisible to the young girl, and she was unconscious of the expression of alarm that had crept over them. Two or three times, while writing, he had cast furtive, scrutinizing glances at his client; and it was evident that his first impulse of sympathetic interest was changing to restraint caused by serious apprehensions.

Folding her hands once more on her lap, Mariette resumed:

"I have nothing new to tell you, Monsieur Louis. My godmother is still ill, she suffers very much, and the torture she undergoes embitters her character more and more. That I may be near her as much as possible, I now work at home instead of going to Mme. Jourdan. The days seem wretchedly long and sad, for working at the shop with my companions is much more cheerful, and I can accomplish more. I am therefore obliged to stay up very late; and I sleep but little, as my godmother always suffers more at night and, consequently needs more care. Sometimes I fail to hear her first call, I sleep so soundly; then she scolds me, which is only natural when she suffers so much.

"I tell you these things to show you that my life is not a happy one, and that one word of friendship from you would encourage and console me for so many sad things.

"Farewell, Monsieur Louis. I counted on Augustine to write; but she has gone away and I am dictating this letter to another person. Ah! never have I so much regretted my inability to read and write as at this moment. Farewell, once more, Monsieur Louis; think of me I beg you, for I think of you always."

"Is this all, my child?" queried the old man, after a moment of silence.

"Yes, monsieur."

"And what name shall I sign?"

"Mariette."

"Mariette only?"

"Mariette Moreau, if you please."

"Mariette Moreau," repeated the old man, as he inscribed the name.

Then folding the letter, he made a violent effort to conceal the secret anguish with which he awaited the reply to his question, and asked:

"To whom shall I address it?"

"To M. Louis Richard, at Dreux, to be called for."

"No more doubt of it," thought the old man, as he prepared to address the letter.

Had the young girl been less pre-occupied with her, own thoughts, she could not have failed to remark the harsh expression which darkened the public writer's countenance when he learned beyond doubt to whom this innocent missive was addressed. In fact, he seemed unable to make up his mind to inscribe the name given, for when he had written the word "Monsieur," he suddenly dropped the pen and looked up.

"My dear child," he began, trying to smile with his usual benevolence, that he might not betray his resentment and apprehensions, "although this is the first time we meet, it seems to me that I have inspired confidence in you."

"Indeed you have, monsieur," she assured him. "Before entering your house I feared I would not find the courage to dictate the letter to a total stranger; but you received me with so much kindness that my embarrassment has almost completely melted away."

"Why should you have felt any embarrassment, my child? Even though I were your father, I could not find a word to reproach you in what you have written to—to M. Louis—and it I did not fear to abuse your confidence in me I would ask—but no—it would be an indiscretion."

"What would you ask, monsieur?"

"Who this M. Louis Richard is."

"Oh! that's no secret, I assure you. M. Louis is a student; the notary's office in which he is employed is in the same building as the shop in which I work. That is how we met, just one year ago to-day."

"Ah! I now understand why you insisted on the date of your letter; to-day is the anniversary of your first meeting!"

"Yes, monsieur."

"And you love each other. There, don't blush, my child—I suppose you will marry some day?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Has M. Louis' family consented to the marriage?"

"M. Louis has no one to consult but his father, and we hope he will not refuse his consent."

"And what kind of a man is he?"

"The best of fathers—so M. Louis tells me—and a man who endures his poverty most courageously, although he once had a comfortable home. But M. Louis and his father are now as poor as godmother and myself; and this is why we expect no opposition to our marriage. No difficulty can arise between poor people."

"It seems to me that your godmother does not make life very happy for you, my child."

"What will you? it is so natural to be ill-humored when one suffers incessantly and life is but a continual round of misfortunes."

"Is she a cripple?"

"She has lost one hand, besides being afflicted with a lung disease which has kept her confined to her bed for more than a year."

"How did she lose that hand?"

"She pricked her finger with a mattress needle, and as she could not stop work, blood poisoning followed, and she was forced to have her arm amputated."

"Poor woman," broke in the old man, absent-mindedly.

"As for her lung trouble, it is very common among women who continually breathe the dust arising from the wool used in mattresses. My godmother is almost bent double, and during her long paroxysms of coughing I am sometimes obliged to support her in my arms for hours."

"You alone, then, contribute to her support?"

"Certainly, since she is unable to work."

"Such devotion on your part is very generous."

"I only do my duty, monsieur. She gave me shelter after my parents died, and paid for my three years of apprenticeship in the shop. Is it not just that I should now care for her?"

"You must work very hard to earn sufficiently."

"From fifteen to eighteen hours a day."

"And instead of taking a much needed rest at night, you watch over your godmother?"

"Who would care for her if I did not?"

"Why not try to place her in the hospital?"

"She would not be admitted, as her case is incurable. Besides, I scarcely think I would have the courage to desert her thus."

"You are indeed a noble girl, my child, and I judged you rightly," declared the old man, grasping her hand in his.

"Oh! my God!" cried Mariette, as she saw his sleeve catch the inkstand, spilling the contents over the precious letter. "Ah! monsieur, what a misfortune!"

"What awkwardness!" exclaimed the writer angrily. "But never mind, I can copy it in a very few minutes. I shall read it aloud as I go on, so that you may suggest any change you may think proper."

"I am so grieved to give you all this trouble," she murmured, evidently much distressed.

"It serves me right, my dear,—I alone am to blame."

As he resumed his work, a violent internal conflict seemed reflected on his features; from time to time a sigh of relief and satisfaction escaped his lips; then again he appeared confused and avoided Mariette's limpid gaze; while she leaned on the table, her head supported on one hand, anxiously and enviously following the rapid pen of the writer, as he traced the magic characters that would convey her thoughts to her lover.

"How much do I owe you, monsieur?" she asked timidly, when he had folded the missive and addressed it.

"Fifty centimes," rejoined the old man, after a moment of hesitation, "and remember that I charge you for one of the letters only. I alone am responsible for my awkwardness."

"You are very kind, monsieur," said Mariette, touched by what she considered a proof of generosity on his part. "Indeed," she added, as she replaced her slender purse into her pocket, "you have been so good to me that I shall ask you a very great service—"

"Go on, my child."

"If I have more letters to send, it will be almost impossible for me to go to a stranger—"

"I shall always be at your service, my child."

"What I wished to say was, that my godmother is also unable to write or read, and the friend who was my confidante has gone to the country. So if I should receive a letter from M. Louis, would you have the goodness to read it for me? I would then dictate the answer at once."

"Certainly, my child; bring me all your letters," rejoined the old man, dissimulating his satisfaction. "I am indeed much gratified by the confidence you show in me. Good-bye, then. I hope you feel less embarrassment now than when you entered?"

"I did not expect so much kindness, monsieur."

"Try to look on me as your reader and secretary, my child. Does it not seem as though we had known each other for ten years."

"Indeed it does—Good-bye, monsieur."

Mariette had scarcely vanished, when the postman pushed the door open and handed in a letter, saying: "Here is a letter from Dreux, pÈre Richard."

"A letter from Dreux!" exclaimed the old man, grasping it eagerly and examining the writing closely. "Ah! it comes from Ramon," he muttered to himself. "I wonder what he thinks of my son? Alas! what will now become of the fine projects so long formed between us!"

"Six sous, pÈre Richard," observed the postman, arousing him from his reverie.

"Six sous!" cried the old man. "The devil! was it not prepaid? Ah! true enough," he sighed, as he regretfully handed the man the coin he had just received from Mariette.