emed scarce less
tempest-tossed than he; and all about the school the distress spread
as wintry gray overcasts a sky. Only Sidonie moved calmly her
accustomed round, like some fair, silent, wide-winged bird circling
about a wreck.

At length the lad and his teacher were left alone. Claude sat very
still, looking at his toil-worn hands lying crossed on the desk.
Presently there sank an arm across his shoulders. It was the master's.
Drop--drop--two big tears fell upon the rude desk's sleeve-polished
wood. The small, hard, right hand slowly left its fellow, and rubbed
off the wet spots.

"Claude, you have something to disclose me?"

The drooping head nodded.

"And 'tis not something done wrongly?"

The lad shook his head.

"Then, my poor Claude,"--the teacher's own voice faltered for a
moment,--"then--'tis--'tis she!" He stroked the weeping head that sank
into its hands. "Ah! yes, Claude, yes; 'tis she; 'tis she! And you
want me to help you. Alas! in vain you want me! I cannot even try-y-y
to help you; you have mentioned it too lately! 'Tis right you come to
me, despiting discrepancy of years; but alas! the dif_fic_ulty lies in
the con_tra_ry; for alas! Claude, our two heart' are of the one, same
age!"

They went out; and walking side by side toward the failing sun, with
the humble flowers of the field and path newly opened and craving
leave to live about their feet and knees, Bonaventure Deschamps
revealed his own childlike heart to the simple boy whose hand clasped
his.

"Yes, yes; I conceal not from you, Claude, that 'tis not alone 'thou
lovest,' but 'I love'! If with cause to hope, Claude, I know not. And
I must not search to know whilst yet the schoolmaster. And the same to
you, Claude, whilst yet a scholah. We mus' let the dissimulation like
a worm in the bud to h-eat our cheek. 'Tis the voice of honor
cry--'Silence.' And during the meanwhilst, you? Perchance at the last,
the years passing and you enlarging in size daily and arriving to
budding manhood, may be the successful; for suspect not I consider
lightly the youngness of yo' passion. Attend what I shall reveal you.
Claude, there once was a boy, yo' size, yo' age, but fierce, selfish,
distemperate; still more selfish than yo' schoolmaster of to-day." And
there that master went on to tell of an early--like Claude's, an all
too early--rash, and boyish passion, whose ragged wound, that he had
thought never could heal, was now only a tender scar.

"And