_her. It must_ have been an inspiration of the moment, or a movement,
a _tressaillement_, of the heart.

"Listen, Pupasse, my child. Go home, study your lesson well. I shall
come every evening myself and hear it; and as soon as you know it, I
shall fetch you back myself. You know I always keep my word."

Keep her word! That she did. Could the inanimate past testify, what a
fluttering of fools' caps in that parlor--"Daily Bees," and "Weekly
Couriers," by the year-full!

What could Pupasse say or do? It settled the question, as Madame
Joubert assured madame, when the tall, thin black figure with the bag
of books disappeared through the gate.

Madame Joubert was never known to break her word; that is all one
knows about her part of the bargain.

One day, not three years ago, ringing a bell to inquire for a servant,
a familiar murmuring fell upon the ear, and an old abécédaire's eyes
could not resist the temptation to look through the shutters. There
sat Pupasse; there was her old grammar; there were both fingers
stopping her ears--as all studious girls do, or used to do; and there
sounded the old words composing the rule for irregular verbs.

And you all remember how long it is since we wore funnel-shaped
hoop-skirts!