of the nursery. Above all, what advantage ever
compensates for hurting a child's health or breaking his spirit? Never
let him learn, more than you can help it, the crushing bitterness of
fear. A bold child who looks you in the face, speaks the truth, and
shames the devil; that is the stuff of which to make good and brave--ay,
and wise men!

Maltravers entered, unannounced, into this charming family party, and
stood unobserved for a few moments, by the open door. The little pupil
was the first to perceive him, and, forgetful of monosyllables, ran
to greet him; for Maltravers, though gentle rather than gay, was a
favourite with children, and his fair, calm, gracious countenance did
more for him with them than if, like Goldsmith's Burchell, his pockets
had been filled with gingerbread and apples. "Ah, fie on you, Mr.
Maltravers!" cried Teresa, rising; "you have blown away all the
characters I have been endeavouring this last hour to imprint upon
sand."

"Not so, Signora," said Maltravers, seating himself, and placing the
child on his knee; "my young friend will set to work again with a
greater gusto after this little break in upon his labours."

"You will stay with us all day, I hope?" said De Montaigne.

"Indeed," said Maltravers, "I am come to ask permission to do so, for
to-morrow I depart for England."

"Is it possible?" cried Teresa. "How sudden! How we shall miss you! Oh!
don't go. But perhaps you have bad news from England?"

"I have news that summon me hence," replied Maltravers; "my guardian
and second father has been dangerously ill. I am uneasy about him,
and reproach myself for having forgotten him so long in your seductive
society."

"I am really sorry to lose you," said De Montaigne, with greater warmth
in his tone than in his words. "I hope heartily we shall meet again
soon: you will come, perhaps, to Paris?"

"Probably," said Maltravers; "and you, perhaps, to England?"

"Ah, how I should like it!" exclaimed Teresa.

"No, you would not," said her husband; "you would not like England
at all; you would call it _triste_ beyond measure. It is one of those
countries of which a native should be proud, but which has no amusement
for a stranger, precisely because full of such serious and stirring
occupations to the citizens. The pleasantest countries for strangers are
the worst countries for natives (witness Italy), and _vice versa_."

Teresa shook her dark curls, and would not be convinced.

"And whe