at you
please.

"Your loving mother,

"Charlotte."

"P. S. Ten o'clock at night.

"Dearest,--I am alone, and hasten to add a good night to my letter, to
say on paper what I would say to you were you here with me now. Do not
be discouraged. You know just what he is. _He_ is very determined,
and has resolved that you shall be a machinist, and you must be. Is he
right? I cannot say. I beg of you to be careful of your health; it must
be damp where you are; and if you need anything, write to me under cover
to the Archambaulds. Have you any more chocolate? For this, and for any
other little things you want, I lay aside from my personal expenses a
little money every month. So you see that you are teaching me economy.
Remember that some day I may have only you to rely upon.

"If you knew how sad I am sometimes in thinking of the future! Life is
not very gay here, and I am not always happy. But then, as you know, my
sad moments do not last long. I laugh and cry at the same time without
knowing why. I have no reason to complain, either. He is nervous like
all artists, but I comprehend the real generosity and nobility of his
nature. Farewell! I finish my letter for Mere Archambauld to mail as
she goes home. We shall not keep the good woman long. M. d'Argenton
distrusts her. He thinks she is paid by his enemies to steal his ideas
and titles for books and plays! Good night, my dearest."

Between the lines of this lengthy letter Jack saw two faces,--that of
D'Argenton, dictatorial and stern,--and his mother's, gentle and tender.
How under subjection she was! How crushed was her expansive nature! A
child's imagination supplies his thoughts with illustrations. It seemed
to Jack, as he read, that his Ida--she was always Ida to her boy--was
shut up in a tower, making signals of distress to him.

Yes, he would work hard, he would make money, and take his mother away
from such tyranny; and as a first step he put away all his books.

"You are right," said old Rondic; "your books distract your attention."

In the workshop Jack heard constant allusions made to the Rondic
household, and particularly to the relations existing between Clarisse
and Chariot.

Every one knew that the two met continually at a town half-way
between Saint Nazarre and Indret. Here Clarisse went under pretence of
purchasing provisions that could not be procured on the island. In the
contemptuous glances of the men who met her, in their familiar nods, she
re