“I had seen him once before,” replied Charlotte, “and thought him an agreeable man; and you know one is always pleased to see a person with whom one has passed several cheerful hours.  But,” said she pausing, and drawing the letter from her pocket, while a gentle suffusion of vermillion tinged her neck and face, “he gave me this letter; what shall I do with it?”

“Read it, to be sure,” returned Mademoiselle.

“I am afraid I ought not,” said Charlotte:  “my mother has often told me, I should never read a letter given me by a young man, without first giving it to her.”

“Lord bless you, my dear girl,” cried the teacher smiling, “have you a mind to be in leading strings all your life time.  Prithee open the letter, read it, and judge for yourself; if you show it your mother, the consequence will be, you will be taken from school, and a strict guard kept over you; so you will stand no chance of ever seeing the smart young officer again.”

“I should not like to leave school yet,” replied Charlotte, “till I have attained a greater proficiency in my Italian and music.  But you can, if you please, Mademoiselle, take the letter back to Montraville, and tell him I wish him well, but cannot, with any propriety, enter into a clandestine correspondence with him.”  She laid the letter on the table, and began to undress herself.

“Well,” said La Rue, “I vow you are an unaccountable girl:  have you no curiosity to see the inside now? for my part I could no more let a letter addressed to me lie unopened so long, than I could work miracles:  he writes a good hand,” continued she, turning the letter, to look at the superscription.

“’Tis well enough,” said Charlotte, drawing it towards her.

“He is a genteel young fellow,” said La Rue carelessly, folding up her apron at the same time; “but I think he is marked with the small pox.”

“Oh you are greatly mistaken,” said Charlotte eagerly; “he has a remarkable clear skin and fine complexion.”

“His eyes, if I could judge by what I saw,” said La Rue, “are grey and want expression.”

“By no means,” replied Charlotte; “they are the most expressive eyes I ever saw.”  “Well, child, whether they are grey or black is of no consequence:  you have determined not to read his letter; so it is likely you will never either see or hear from him again.”

Charlotte took up the letter, and Mademoiselle continued—­

“He is most probably going to America; and if ever you should hear any account of him, it may possibly be that he is killed; and though he loved you ever so fervently, though his last breath should be spent in a prayer for your happiness, it can be nothing to you:  you can feel nothing for the fate of the man, whose letters you will not open, and whose sufferings you will not alleviate, by permitting him to think you would remember him when absent, and pray for his safety.”

Charlotte still held the letter in her hand:  her heart swelled at the conclusion of Mademoiselle’s speech, and a tear dropped upon the wafer that closed it.